Emblazoned
by Noise And Hammers
Summary: Merchant clamped his colossal hand onto Sherlock's horrified face.  "You said we were boring," he seethed.  "Well, we'll make sure you're more than entertained for this night, won't we, Mr. Holmes?"  RATED FOR EXTREMELY MATURE CONTENT.
1. Chapter 1

NOTE: Very dark, very edgy, very scary, but very Sherlock. I got this idea while watching _The Machinist_, for some indiscernible reason. I know the ideas do not hardly correlate, but nonetheless, I hope you don't hate me for torturing Sherlock and John...or you, for that matter.

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><p><em>Emblazoned<em>

CHAPTER ONE

"Serial rapists," Lestrade said "Four of them."

Sherlock knelt in front of the naked body in front of him. He studied.

"John," he said expectedly. John grimaced and knelt down next to the body.

"Dead for...three hours..." he said.

"Good," Sherlock said, edging him on. John gently lifted the corpse and pushed it on it's side. He squinted.

"Multiple stab wounds," he said. "Looks like they weren't what killed him though. Not sure as to the weapon...looks like some kind of pocket knife. The wounds aren't deep enough to be any kind of combat knife or anything."

He leaned in towards the neck and face.

"Indications of attempted strangulation, but not the cause of death."

"Yes," Sherlock mused. "A violent bunch?" He turned to Lestrade.

"Revolting," Lestrade remarked. "This isn't the first we've dealt with from them. Call themselves 'The Merchants.' Gang rapists, not normally murderers, but of course that's why you're here."

Sherlock groaned.

"Oh boring," he said. "Just an insecure posse of middle-aged men, probably nymphomaniacs, ransacking London for a quick fix. Boring!" Lestrade grumbled. John looked sharply at Sherlock. Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at him and mouthed a "not good?" to which John responded with one solemn shake of his head. Sherlock fell silent.

Lestrade sighed and continued.

"The Merchants tend to target men, though they've...violated women before. Usually there's no correlation between the victims, and like I said, they don't normally end up dead. But the three recent victims have been found just like this one. Stabbed, or bruised, beaten, things of that nature, and dead. We've done tests on the bodies, and it has been confirmed that rape had taken place as well and have been able to ID most of the perps. Most of the time we can't find any clean evidence, but recently they've gotten sloppy I guess."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the body.

_Victim analysis: male, about twenty-four, left handed, athlete, cyclist probably, unfamiliar with London, most likely foreign, possibly Jewish, heterosexual, married, newly wed-_

"...and we'll keep a look out, alright Sherlock?"

John's voice interrupted him.

"What?" Sherlock said, looking to his stout friend. John sighed and stood.

"I was telling Lestrade that he should keep analyzing the DNA samples they found, we'll keep investigating, and once they find more information, we'll keep a look out. Alright?"

Sherlock nodded at John and turned to Lestrade.

"When the tests come back, text me. Until then, I'll need the case records of all the previous victims to look over, any photographs, messages, you know. I'll read them over tonight and I should be able to get you a motive tomorrow. I won't wait up for you John."

Lestrade, sighed, nodded once, and let the two walk out. Sherlock's eyes were glued to the tiny screen of his phone while John scurried behind him. They were walking up the block towards their flat; the murder had taken place only a few doors down from them.

"Sherlock," John began gently. Sherlock glanced at him before returning his blue-green zirconium eyes back to the screen.

"Something has to have gone wrong with the group," he said. "No murders, just having a romp and leaving. But something went wrong. Someone got edgy. Now they're killing. Four of them...The Merchants..."

"Sherlock you need to be a little less aggressive with these types of things," John said as they reached 221B. Sherlock stopped at the steps and looked at John curiously.

"Aggressive?" he asked, his phone still in his hand.

"Yes, Sherlock," John sighed. "You have to remember that a lot of these people...these dead people...they went through such an horrific experience and it's...well it's a bit impolite to call it boring, to say the least."

"They're dead, John. They don't care."

"That's not...nevermind. You're right."

"I shouldn't have even left the flat. This case barely ranks a five, at best."

John shook his head and sighed heavily, and the two men made their way up to the flat and were greeted with an already opened door. Dishes clattering and water running were the sounds on the inside, beckoning for them to enter.

"Oh boys, home already?" a cheerful looking Mrs. Hudson said as she washed away the grime of the dirty dishes that were, no doubt, neglected by the two for days on end.

Sherlock nodded in her direction and made his way towards the mantle, while John approached the fridge, desperate for nourishment and hoping very strongly that there weren't body parts in the way.

"Thought you weren't our house keeper, Mrs. H," John remarked as he managed to rescue a half-finished jar of strawberry jam from the back corner, where a two week old severed hand was rotting rather nicely in a plastic bag. He grimaced, sniffed the jam, and decided he wouldn't die if he managed a morsel.

"The stink was getting to me, dear," Mrs. Hudson replied. "_Someone_ has to do these dishes, you know."

"It _was_ Sherlock's turn," John said. He sat at the table with his jam and some bread, and began to eat.

"That would explain it," Mrs. Hudson said with a chuckle. They both looked to Sherlock, who was sitting in his chair, plucking his violin. His face was blank, but they both knew his mind was racing.

"Thought you said this case was barely a five," John called to him. Sherlock glanced up at him.

"Doesn't matter," he said distractedly. He picked up his bow and laid it on the strings, as if he were about to play, but he did not.

"Oh? Then what are you thinking about?"

Sherlock began to play, then, a slow tune that sounded melancholy but pleasant. John huffed and shook his head.

"He's impossible," he muttered as he munched on his jam and bread.

Mrs. Hudson sat across from John at the table with a cup of tea, and pushed a cup towards him as well.

"He's just different," she said. "Keeps it interesting."

John shrugged.

"Not sure _interesting_ is the right word," he said, smiling. The song on the violin was getting faster, darker, deeper, and Sherlock had stood. John looked at him.

His back was arched slightly, his tight violet shirt (it must have been his favourite, if Sherlock was capable of such things, John had often thought) creased on his torso. His arm pulled the bow across the strings with such elegance and grace that it made John nearly envious of how this man could execute such simple tasks with such poise. His nimble fingers drew the notes melodically out of the instrument, his head tilted and his face only slightly contorting with the music. His eyebrows were furrowed just a bit, his eyes staring into nothing, his lips pressed together in thought and concentration.

"An enigma," John breathed. He shook his head. Often times, he found himself doing this. He would watch Sherlock, just for the sake of watching him, and he felt nearly out of breath afterwards. The mystery of the man, the equanimity and composure that he held himself with, only ever revealing the slightest, tiniest bit of inner emotion on accident through his crystalline eyes, intrigued John to no end. And his body itself was flawless. Porcelain skin, the figure of a Greek statue, and those damn cheekbones...John felt that sometimes he should be worried at himself for the interest he showed in Sherlock. But the _idea_ of him, the very _concept_ that Sherlock was, it eluded John massively and it made the man seem so unattainable that John couldn't help but want to watch, if nothing else.

"John dear?" Mrs. Hudson said. "I'm about to head out. Everything alright?" John blinked rapidly before looking away from Sherlock and turning to Mrs. Hudson.

"Yeah, " he said. "Thanks for the tea, Mrs. H."

"Never a problem, dear."

She moved into the living room, John getting up to follow her.

"Don't work too hard, Sherlock dear," she said as she passed through the door.

"No such thing," Sherlock replied half-heartedly over the violin. The door was closed, and John sat, slouched, on the couch. Sherlock drew the bow once or twice more over the instrument before he put it down in his chair and looked out the window, hands shoved deep in his pockets.

"What's on your mind?" John asked. Sherlock looked at him.

"Just thinking," he said. His eyes told John that it wasn't "just thinking."

"What about?"

Sherlock looked nearly offended.

"Why do you want to know?" he asked. John shrugged.

"Seems like you're bothered, is all," he said. He kicked off his shoes and swung his feet over, so that he was laying comfortably on the couch.

"I'm not."

"Alright then, suit yourself," John replied. He closed his eyes. "I'm going to get a nap. Try to be quiet."

There was a beat, and John thought for a moment that Sherlock had left, but he opened one eye and saw that Sherlock was still there, staring out the window, a grimace on his face. John would have tried to pry more, but he was too tired, and he let himself drift into sleep.

* * *

><p>John awoke to the sound of the Holmes brothers speaking viciously towards each other, something he had become quite accustomed to. He blinked himself to life and glanced over.<p>

"Why do you feel the need to tell me what to do all the time?" Sherlock was saying. He was pacing the room angrily while Mycroft sat in John's usual chair, fingers poised around the top of his umbrella.

"Sherlock, do not be juvenile. And stop raising your voice."

"I can speak however bloody loud I want to, you egocentric bastard!"

"Calm yourself," Mycroft suddenly said, angrily and with striking authority. The command seemed to physically affect Sherlock. He stopped pacing and he seemed to shrink into himself. He then forced a calming breath and sat in his chair, glaring vehemently at his brother.

"Why do you always think I'm out to get you?" Mycroft asked more calmly. Sherlock crossed his arms.

"Because you are," he said, looking away. "You've always enjoyed being able to bully me."

Mycroft sighed, and looked at John.

"It seems you woke your friend," he said. Sherlock looked at John.

"No no," John said. He sat up. "It's fine. Evening Mycroft."

"John," Mycroft said affirmatively. He stood and looked at his brother.

"Behave yourself, and call me once you find something," he said with the same authority in his voice, slightly toned down. Sherlock sneered and threw his head back.

"Good bye, Mycroft," he said dismissively.

"Good bye, little brother," Mycroft replied. He nodded and gave a careless smile to John before he left. Sherlock lifted his head back up and began staring with an adamant protest at the door. John cocked an eyebrow.

"What was that about?" he asked. He stood and stretched as his friend looked at him and shook his head, tossing his ebon curls to and fro.

"Doesn't matter," he said with gruff indifference. "I made tea."

"Oh," John said, genuinely surprised. "That was nice."

Sherlock said nothing and simply watched as John went into the kitchen to fix himself a cup. Then he sat down in his regular chair, across from Sherlock, and he sipped his tea contentedly. Sherlock had retrieved his phone from his pocket and was texting rapidly. John cocked his head and watched Sherlock's nimble fingers dance across the touch screen so familiarly.

"Who are you texting?"

"Lestrade."

"Why?"

"Because."

John huffed and sat back in his chair, laying the cup and saucer on the small side table.

"Sherlock," he said declaratively. Sherlock glanced up at him.

"_What_ was that all about?" John continued, gesturing to the door.

"What?"

"Mycroft. What'd he want."

"Nothing. As ever."

Sherlock gave a quick shrug. John sighed.

"So, think you'll look into that case about The Merchants?" he asked, not bothering to pursue the prior subject any further. Sherlock nodded once.

"It's something," he said off handedly. John nodded.

"It's a little bit interesting, no?" he offered. He sipped his tea again, and enjoyed the brew more thoroughly than whenever he fixed his tea himself. Sherlock always took great care in doing things just exactly as they were supposed to be done. He relished that in his cup while Sherlock set his phone on his lap, tented his fingers, and regarded John with an expression that said "hardly, but I'm bored."

John smiled secretly to himself, enjoying the tiny moments like these, when Sherlock and he could communicate with silence and gestures that only they knew of each other. The familiarity made John feel some odd sense of comfort. Warmth. Belonging.

"What is it John?" Sherlock asked suddenly. His voice sliced the wall of thought that John Watson had unconsciously surrounded himself with, and he looked at his friend.

"Nothing," he said cheerfully. He had finished the tea and set the cup down with satisfaction. "Fine cup, there."

"Mm."

Sherlock was thinking. John could always tell. His eyes would be fixed on nothing and his responses were short, sometimes even nonexistent. Mostly though, John _felt_ it when Sherlock thought. He felt the enourmous sense of being pushed away by the man's incalculable intellect, and John pursed his lips.

"Well, I'm-"

Sherlock suddenly snapped his head towards the direction of the window.

"What was that?" he asked in a hushed tone.

John listened, and after silence, he narrowed his eyes questioningly and looked at Sherlock.

"What was what?" John asked. "I didn't hear anyth-"

But John did hear something. The backfiring of a car, just outside on Baker Street, more than likely right across from their flat.

"Twice," Sherlock said. He stood and looked out the window. "It backfired twice."

"Maybe we should go and see," John said, as he too stood and accompanied Sherlock at the window.

Sure enough, there was a large white van parked in the alleyway just across the way, and there were two men looking rather distressed, circling the car this way and that. It was getting dark, so the figures could hardly be seen by the street lamp.

"Think we should help?" John inquired, looking up at Sherlock. Sherlock's eyes were fixed on the van, as if from a distance he was assessing all the facts already.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock looked at his friend and sighed, licking his lips.

"They're making quite a clamour," he said quietly. John nodded and glanced outside again as the van was making awful noises and the men were groaning and shouting at each other.

"Let's go see what we can do," John said. He grabbed his coat and headed for the door. Sherlock lingered just for a moment by the window, chewing his inner cheek.

"Sherlock come on," John called from the doorway. Sherlock sighed, ran his hand through his curls, and made his way towards John, grabbing his coat and scarf. He began donning the garments as they walked down the hall and steps.

"You know you don't need to wear that damn coat," John remarked as he opened the door and a burst of chilly air whisked itself at the two.

"It's cold," Sherlock replied innocently. John simply smiled as they crossed the street, into the frigid, fast approaching night. The moon shone ominously above, shrill and apparent in its presentation, and the biting winter wind freely danced about the few remaining, lonely objects on the narrow London street, vacant, dead silent, at rest from the day.

Sherlock hugged his coat against his body while John paced ahead of him, approaching the misfortunate men first.

"Need any help, mates?" he said, sounding as friendly and cheerful as anyone could on a cold winter night.

One of the men turned, and John was slightly taken aback by the massive form that he now beheld in the dim light.

"John Watson?" came a slightly accented voice from the silhouette. Sherlock had now approached them, and he stood slightly behind John.

"Erm...yes..." John said confusedly. Sherlock noted that three other figures were emerging from the dark.

"John," he said quietly, cautiously.

"And you are?" John asked, taking a small step back. Sherlock looked around him.

_Possible weapons: hanging bar from fire escape, lid from garbage bin, actual garbage bin, recycled glass-_

Sherlock flicked his eyes quickly to John's back.

_Carrying._

A small bit of relief swept briefly over him.

"You don't know me?" the man suddenly said. The other three were now drawing even nearer. John was growing tense.

"No...?"

The man chuckled deeply.

"Edgar," he said. "Edgar Merchant."

And two swift blows to the back of each head was enough to send both the detective and the doctor stumbling to the ground, unconscious.

They were loaded into the van like crates of heavy equipment, and the men then drove away with their newly acquired shipments.

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><p>Be warned, it's about to get a lot worse... -NH<p> 


	2. Chapter 2

_Emblazoned_

CHAPTER TWO

Sherlock awoke. He immediately made several observations.

_ Blind folded. Gagged. _

_ Cold atmosphere, hard damp ground. Concrete. Dead air, smell of mildew. Warehouse._

He tried to move.

_ Arms behind me. Bound at the wrists. Several sore areas. Ribs. Head. _

He knew what this was.

_ Kidnapped. The van. Four men._

_ Backfired twice._

_ Approaching us._

_ One man spoke. Said his name was Edg-_

_Edgar Merchant._

_ Serial rapist, murderer._

He felt a surge of panic burst through his being before he tried to calm himself, searching for logic. Then he heard a voice.

"Sherlock?"

John.

"Sherlock it's John, hang on."

He felt John's hands on his face, taking off the blindfold and then the gag in his mouth. He choked.

"You alright?" John asked. Sherlock blinked rapidly to regain focus. He felt disoriented.

"Why didn't you have a blind fold?"

"I don't know. I was out cold."

"Are you alright?" Sherlock asked as John worked at trying to untie the complex knot that held Sherlock's wrists together. The rope rubbed against his skin and scraped uncomfortably.

"I'm fine," John said. He grunted frustratedly. "I can't untie this knot."

"What kind is it?"

"Sherlock I don't know."

"Damn. I wish I could look."

John helped him sit up. As Sherlock studied the category of difficult knots he had stored in his mind, John spoke in the echoey room.

"Any idea where we might be?" he asked. Sherlock brought himself back into the world and sighed. He looked around.

"Some kind of abandoned warehouse or factory site, it seems," he said. "Very unoriginal." He felt dizzy. Discombobulated.

"You don't like it?" came a voice from the other end of the large room. Sherlock's eyes snapped towards the silhouette in the open door, and John sprang to his feet defensively. The figure approached, followed by three other hulking figures.

"Don't come any closer," John warned, reaching behind him to retrieve his gun. Sherlock, with some difficulty, stood and assumed a combative stance next to John.

"Boys, boys!" said the massive tank of a man that stood before them. He raised his hands. "No need to tussle! Doctor Watson, this is no place for a firearm!"

"I disagree," John said, holding the gun steady. The man came into the blinking light. He was a giant of a creature, with arms like tree branches and of staggering height and build. The other three emerged behind him, surrounding the two clearly smaller men. Sherlock observed.

_ Four men. Very large. One we've seen before. None under 200 cm, 98 kg, easily. Well built, working. Middle-aged or younger. Two have combat training. Three with guns, two with knives, one with some long object-crowbar?-hidden in jacket._

"No place for a firearm, and yet three of your men are obviously carrying," Sherlock spat cleverly. "Not very fair, now, is it?"

The largest man let out a raspy chuckle.

"They did say you were good, Mr. Holmes," he said. He took a step towards them, and John braced himself. He put a hand behind him, to indicate for Sherlock to stand back.

_ Instinctive precautionary measure. Safety. _

Sherlock staggered slightly.

"Don't move, or I'll shoot," John said. Sherlock looked at him. His eyes were locked on the man, hands steady, completely straight.

"Easy now, big boy," the man said. "No need for that. And besides, you couldn't shoot me if you wanted to."

"Seems like you and I don't seem to agree on much, do we?" John said, his voice monotonous. At any given moment, his finger would pull the trigger in a flash and one of the four men would be dead. Instantly. Sherlock flicked his eyes to the man in front of them.

"Who are you?" he asked quietly. John kept his eyes on the man. There was a pause.

"Answer him!" John said loudly. Echoes. Sherlock started a bit. The volume of John's voice made his ears ring and his head throb. He'd taken a blow, he knew, and a major headache was soon to set in.

"You know me," the man said calmly. He stared directly at Sherlock. "Don't you, Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

"Edgar Merchant."

The man smiled.

"But of course," he said. "And Doctor Watson, your gun isn't loaded."

"Like hell it isn't," John sneered. "I said don't move."

Merchant held his arms out.

"Shoot me, then, Doctor," he said. He took another step forward, and the other three men also approached.

John flinched for one moment before he pulled the trigger.

_Click_.

"No..." John breathed. Sherlock swallowed.

"You really don't think we'd let you parade around our place with a loaded gun! You're our very special guests, you two!" Merchant said. His three other goonies began to close in on them. "We wouldn't want any trouble..."

As the men drew closer, inch by inch, John assumed a fighting stance and glanced back at Sherlock. Sherlock nodded. If they had to fight, they had to fight. And they would fight like hell.

John was the first to move. He pounced at the massive Edgar Merchant in front of him and strung his muscular arms around the larger man's neck. It barely phased Merchant as he brought John down with one swift blow from his right hook. Sherlock tried to swipe a low kick to one of the men closer to him, but his foot his a hard shin and he recoiled as the man he attacked advanced on him.

Before either of them had a chance to think, they were both pinned down by three giant men, John under two and Sherlock under one.

"You two put up a nice fight," Merchant said. He swiped a hand across his forehead theatrically. "And I'm sorry to say, Doctor Watson, but you're really not our guest of honour tonight."

"What do you want with us?" Sherlock growled from under the enourmous weight of the man. Merchant knelt down and smiled in Sherlock's face.

"You, Mr. Holmes," he said sinisterly. "We just want you. We want to teach you a bit of a lesson. Show you what our line of work is like."

Sherlock struggled, but he was weak and he began to feel sick as the head injury took a toll on his strength.

"Fortunately, though," Merchant said, standing. He went to a further corner of the room and brought a chair to one of the two men holding John. "Your friend has the pleasure of watching the festivities tonight."

The two men, with some amount of struggle, managed to tie John to the chair securely with rope and one man drew his gun.

Merchant nodded as the other man on top of Sherlock picked him up and held him, his arms held fast behind his back. He tried to move.

_Futile._

"Jakob," Merchant said to the man near John. "Please shoot Doctor Watson in the head if Mr. Holmes tries anything."

Sherlock's eyes darted to John.

_ Worry. Confusion. Fear. _

He swallowed and looked back at Merchant.

"Don't listen to him, Sherlock!" John growled. Sherlock ignored him, focusing all his attention on Edgar Merchant. He suddenly began to feel very afraid.

"Sherlock Holmes," Merchant said, drawing very close to Sherlock's face. Beads of sweat gathered on his pale forehead, clinging to his dark curls. His eyes searched Merchant's face. He wanted to deny it, he wanted to disprove the impending doom that stood before him in his mind, the only outcome, the bleak inferiority he'd be subjected to, the ominous foreboding he'd endure.

He would be a victim.

_Panic_.

Merchant clamped his colossal hand onto Sherlock's horrified face.

"You said we were boring," he seethed. "Well, we'll make sure you're more than entertained for this night, won't we, Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock felt a shudder travel up his spine. His palms were moist, his mouth was dry, his whole body was rigid with fear. John watched helplessly from the chair, struggling and fighting until he felt exhausted.

"Sherlock! Sherlock!" he kept shouting. The man with the gun, Jakob, nudged the barrel against John's temple.

"Stop move," he said angrily in thick, Russian-accented English. "Or I shoot. You then your pretty friend."

John grunted and stared in terror as the three men near Sherlock pinned him still.

"What shall we do, then, boys?" Merchant asked his henchmen. "Feliks, Maxim?"

The two addressed men smiled. Feliks, the man holding Sherlock, breathed into his ear.

"So pretty," he said. Sherlock grunted, shaking his head. Maxim, the man that had helped tie down John, put his large hands on Sherlock's chest and grasped his white buttoned shirt, then tore it open. Buttons flew, Sherlock flinched, and the men chuckled.

"He's so frail when he's put in his place, isn't he boys?" Merchant taunted, standing directly in front of Sherlock. Sherlock's mind raced.

_Escape. Move. Struggle. Bite. Thrash. Fight. Fight._

Everything he tried was useless. The men were too strong for his significantly smaller frame. Maxim traced a hulking finger down Sherlock's chest, and Sherlock shivered and closed his eyes.

"Be gentle now, Maxim," Merchant said. "He's a virgin."

Maxim gave Sherlock a toothy grin.

"My favourite," he said in a low, guttural tone. Sherlock gave a tiny whimper and squirmed as Maxim put his rough lips to his cool skin. A tongue emerged from those lips and traced a slimy path along Sherlock's collar bone, then down between his pectorals, along his bruised ribs, and reached his lower abdomen. Sherlock grunted and heaved. Touching was something Sherlock did not even remotely enjoy, and it was rare for even John to ever be able to get a brush or a hand on occasion. This was too much. It overloaded his senses. He remembered his brother.

_"You'll be an eternal virgin, with your ways. I don't see what you find so horrifying about touching."_

Sherlock felt knots forming in his stomach. He had never even considered going through a sexual encounter in his life, and he certainly had never prepared himself for something like this. What could he do? What could he say? How could he even begin to assess the situation if he'd had absolutely no experience in this?

_ Assess: overpowered-PANIC-focus!-overpowered. Three men. Clear intent-PANIC!-no, focus-PANIC-clear intent on-PANIC-stop._

_ Assess: overpowered by three men with clear intent on physical abuse._

_ Options: self defense-PANIC-dammit focus!-self defense proved futile. _

_Bargaining? Possible but unlikely to work._

_ Panic._

_ Senses impeding ability to concentrate-fingers-hands-rough-touching-stop!-panic-John please-touching-stop! _

He couldn't think.

His mind raced.

He gave a small cry.

"Leave him alone!" John shouted. The echoes bounced off the walls, and Sherlock moaned as Maxim planted his meaty fingers underneath the seam of his pants and the waistband of his underwear. Sherlock gasped. Merchant stared, satisfied, edging Maxim to carry on with a sinister nod.

"No," Sherlock whispered. "Don't. Please. Anything you want. Anything. Information, freedom, anything. Please."

Merchant laughed.

_Echoes. Touching._

Sherlock trembled as Maxim's hand submerged even more into his lower regions.

"We don't want anything, dear Sherlock Holmes," he said. "We just want you."

_Search for possible motive: send a message, teach a less-lesson-stop- or obtain informa-panic!-touching-stop!_

"Why?" Sherlock said painfully. John swallowed and wiggled in his restraints.

"Why not?" Merchant replied. "You're so pretty, Sherlock Holmes. You're brilliant, you're quick, but nothing compares to how nice you are to look at. And you're so adorably helpless, out of your element like this. Beautiful."

_ Touching. Confusion._

Maxim's hand was now completely inside Sherlock's pants, and Sherlock panted heavily as the fingers grew dangerously close to a nice thick patch of coarse curls.

"Please God," Sherlock ground out through clenched teeth, closing his eyes. "Don't do this. Please."

"Sherlock Holmes, reduced to begging. You know you've been dying to explore this..."

John had to look away, but Jakob grabbed his head and turned it towards Sherlock.

"You watch," he said. "Or you die."

John was helpless. He couldn't die. He couldn't leave Sherlock alone with these men. But he could do nothing else. He watched in agony.

"Sherlock," he whispered. "God no."

_ Fight. Fight._

Sherlock began to thrash about as Maxim removed his hand and began removing his pants. He kicked and growled and tried to break free. His head was whirling. His senses were meshing together. He had never felt such sheer panic. Before he could realize it, though, he felt a rush of cold as he was bared in front of these men, his pants and undergarments tossed aside. Merchant neared him with a smile.

"No! No!" Sherlock cried, kicking and screaming. Maxim grabbed his legs then, so hard he was sure he had been bruised, and Sherlock yelped as the man pressed his midsection, which was now also free of clothing, against his.

"Please! No!"

"Easy with him now. Poor thing's got no experience."

"Stop! Stop! Let me go! Let me go!"

_ Panic._

His struggling was haphazard, his chest heaving and his cries thickly coated with sobs. Tears poured from his eyes, his voice hoarse and cracking.

"For God's sake let him go!" John yelled.

It was all for naught.

_ Futile._

First it was Maxim, then it was Merchant, then they switched about and it was Feliks. Then Merchant forced Sherlock to his knees, hands and fingers gripping the matted head of damp curls, and they had each had him by the mouth.

Sherlock felt his body failing him as he continued to struggle, every time, desperately trying to escape the pain. He couldn't focus. His mind went blank. He just screamed. He cried for help, for John to make them stop. They kicked him, hit his face, had him again, then repeated. It seemed to go on forever, each time Sherlock getting weaker and weaker. He couldn't see straight. Blood and tears painted the picture of pain on his face. John cried helplessly for him. He didn't know what to do. Neither of them did.

Then it was done.

John's chest heaved and a grimace was his countenance. He didn't know if he could ever come to terms with what he'd just seen. This wasn't Afghanistan. This was his friend. His friend getting beaten and raped in front of him. And he was helpless.

"Well," Merchant said as Sherlock sank to the ground in a heap. "I think you've had enough for tonight, then, pretty Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock whimpered, shaking and crying helplessly.

"We'll be back then, alright?" Merchant said tauntingly. He took Sherlock's face in his hands and planted a scornful kiss on his lips.

"Gorgeous," he said. He stood, pointed to John and said without looking at him.

"Tell Lestrade that if he comes after us, we'll have to visit his pretty little consulting detective again. That'll be on his hands."

With that, the thee men left the room, Jakob cut John's restraints, and fled with the rest.

John scrambled out of his chair and ran over to Sherlock, who was trembling violently on the cold concrete ground, his eyes wide, crying uncontrollably.

"Sherlock," John said gently. He put a hand on his shoulder, and the shell of a man flinched before looking up to see John. The look of horror and embarrassment made a knot form in John's throat. He stroked his friend's tainted skin.

"It's alright, it's over now," he said calmly.

"John," Sherlock squeaked. "John..."

"It's ok. They're gone. You're safe."

Sherlock's eyes flicked around the room, as if to make sure John was telling the truth, and he looked back to John.

_ Assess...situation...traumatic..._

"Take me home," he said pleadingly. "I just want to go home."

John swallowed and nodded.

"Let me get you out of these ropes."

John tried to ignore the blood and bruises around Sherlock's legs and midsection while he fumbled with the slightly loosened knot. The rope had worn the skin on Sherlock's wrists, and they'd made a rather nasty mark. John grimaced. After a long few minutes, he was able to undo the knot and Sherlock's arms curled around himself.

John looked around.

His friend's pants had been thrown in a corner, along with his coat, shoes, now mangled shirt, and undergarments. He winced at Sherlock's frigid frame on the ground before he stood and went over to the clothes. He grabbed Sherlock's coat and went into the pockets.

_There._

He took out Sherlock's phone and dialed Lestrade's number with slightly trembling hands.

"DI Lestrade," came the raspy voice. "What are you doing calling me at this hour of night, Sherlock? I'm working-"

"It's John Watson. We need back up. And an ambulance. Now."

"Where?"

John looked around. Where were they?

"I...don't know where we are..."

"John, what's going on?" Lestrade was more alert now.

"We were kidnapped by Edgar Merchant and his gang. They took us to some abandoned warehouse. I've no idea where we are. But we need help."

"Where's Sherlock?"

John looked back at his friend. He took the coat and draped it over Sherlock's shuddering body.

"Can you trace this call?"

"Yeah, just stay on the line, I'm at the Yard now. Donavan! Trace Holmes' cell phone! Now!"

"Hurry."

"Is anyone hurt?"

John swallowed.

"Yes," he said quietly. "Please hurry Lestrade."

"Good God...don't tell me..."

"Just hurry."


	3. Chapter 3

_Emblazoned_

CHAPTER THREE

John ran his hands through his hair over and over again. Lestrade and Donavan were to his left and right, respectively. They had been in the hospital waiting area for a God awful amount of time, and not a word was said between them.

A doctor finally approached them. John stood immediately.

"Is he ok?" he asked, wringing his hands.

The doctor sighed.

"Well, yes and no. So far the tests we've done indicate that he didn't contract any diseases, but there was some tearing. Minor tissue damage."

"How bad?"

"Nothing that won't heal with time. Just might cause a bit of discomfort. We have him on painkillers and some antibiotics just in case he gets an infection, but it shouldn't be anything to worry about."

"Is he awake?"

"No," the doctor said dismissively. "But he will be in the next hour or so. As for the rest of the damage-"

"So you're sure he's gonna be ok?"

The doctor sighed uncomfortably.

"Yes, Doctor Watson, he'll be fine. Just two busted ribs and some bruises. He had to get some stitches in his head, but otherwise, he'll make a normal recovery."

John sat. He was exhausted. He was stressed. He was worried. Lestrade thanked the doctor and nodded. He looked at John, then at Donavan.

"I've got to get back to the Yard," he said regrettably.

John nodded once, and Donavan told him they'd text if they heard anything. It was nearly 3 in the morning.

The two then sat in silence. Donavan was the first to break it.

"You ok?" she asked, looking at John. He sighed heavily.

"I've never seen anything...as horrific..." John's voice was quiet, weak.

"I'm sorry..." Donavan offered. She put a hand on John's shoulder. "But he'll be ok."

John shook his head.

"No, Sally, he won't be," he said. He looked at her. She was some what surprised. "He won't be ok. That was...you can't be ok after something like that. You can't be."

Sally swallowed.

"You'll be there for him," she said quietly. "We all will."

"Oh come off it, Sally," John suddenly said, angrily. He narrowed his eyes sharply at her. "You hate him. You can't even call him by his name, let alone show concern for him. The man was _raped_, Sally. He was a virgin and he was raped. Multiple times. In front of _me, _his best...his only friend. And I just...I could just watch."

There was a cold silence. Sally's heart was in her throat as the doctor came back again.

"If you wanted to see him, he's not conscious but we're done for the night."

John stood and made his way down the hall, and Sally followed at a distance.

They entered the room. Sherlock was there, completely still, eyes shut. Tubes and needles were attached to him here and there, and his chest moved slowly. John approached the edge of the bed and looked at him. He took his hand.

"Sherlock," he said quietly. Sally stood behind John, and she brought her hands to her mouth.

He looked so clean now. So normal.

When they had finally arrived at the warehouse, Lestrade and her, they had seen merely a husk of what Sherlock Holmes was. John had had him wrapped in his coat, that stupid coat that made him look so mysterious and so tall, but when she saw that coat held tightly around that fragile, shaking body, she saw Sherlock Holmes.

His face was blank, his eyes were blurred. Tears and blood were smudged around his canvas white face like mixed paints, and as John helped him towards the ambulance, each step he took made that face contort and wince. The lights of the police cars blinded him, each body that brushed against him made him flinch so violently that John had to steady him, and when they finally reached the ambulance itself, Sherlock had practically collapsed onto the stretcher, grasping for John's hands. And that doctor was there, his strong arms supporting his feeble friend, his rough hands clasping tightly to Sherlock's thin, pale ones. Sally watched as the paramedics then began to move John out of the ambulance, and she watched as Sherlock frantically reached out for him, John, struggling to stay with his friend.

_"I have to stay with him, you don't understand!"_

_ "I'm sorry, we can't have you in here, you need to go sir."_

_ "I'm a doctor! I need to be with him! Please!"_

_ "John? John?"_

_ "Sherlock, it's ok, I'm here! I'm here!"_

_ "John!"_

The doors had shut then, and John Watson stood, angry, while Lestrade tried to usher him towards the police car. The scene was chaos. Sherlock Holmes had been subjected to brutality, and John Watson had been the only witness. The one who had to bear the sight of that brutality. And it was chaos.

"John..." Sherlock said hoarsely. His eyes had fluttered open and he was faintly looking at John. John gripped his friend's hand.

"I'm here, Sherlock," he said calmly. Sally smiled weakly.

"I'm here, too," she said. She put a hand on Sherlock's bandaged wrist. Sherlock swallowed.

"Sally," he whispered. "Why are you-"

"Don't try figuring it out, Freak," Sally said, sniffing and wiping her face. "I'm here. Deal with it."

Sherlock smiled just slightly, a smirk of sorts that said that he had no intention of figuring it out to begin with. John put his other hand on Sherlock's shoulder.

"You feeling ok?" he asked. Sherlock blinked and breathed deeply.

"I don't know," he said, clearing his throat. He licked his lips. "How did I get here?"

"I called Lestrade. He sent a squadron over. We brought you here," John said delicately.

Sherlock looked at his friend.

"You haven't slept," he said gruffly.

"I've been here, waiting."

"Why?"

John sighed and smiled.

"Don't worry about it," he whispered. Sherlock swallowed hard and cleared his throat again.

"I need water," he said uncomfortably. Sally nodded at him and said a quick "I'll get it," then left the room.

John and Sherlock were alone.

After a seemingly long silence, Sherlock breathing lightly and John mindlessly stroking his hand, Sherlock spoke.

"It's not your fault."

John felt a lump form in his throat.

"What?" he asked feebly. Sherlock looked at him with his bright, calculating eyes.

"It's not your fault," he said, his voice breaking just slightly. "I know that you would have done something if you could have. But you couldn't have. And it's not your fault."

John swallowed. He shook his head.

"I could have tried-"

"Stop."

"Sherlock I could have done something if I-"

"John stop."

John gripped his friend's hand and shut his eyes tightly.

"I've seen men," he said slowly. "I've seen them burned alive, shot in the back, bleed to death. I've seen my friends killed, brutally killed, in front of me. I've seen children with guns, people blown to bits, death in innumerable measure...but...Sherlock what I saw...when they..."

His voice broke and he stopped to take a calming breath. Sherlock closed his eyes and breathed deeply. John felt him tremble through his hand.

"What they did to you," John continued, staring at Sherlock with glassy, red-rimmed eyes and a heavy heart. "I can't forgive myself for letting that happen to you. There is nothing in this world that can erase that image from my mind, and I can't forgive myself for witnessing that and doing nothing more."

Sherlock swallowed. He opened his eyes and looked at John. He was in pain, John knew. He was exhausted in mind and body, and he was being choked with emotion.

"It's not your fault," he said in a brittle whisper. "Alright?"

John looked down at his hand, gripping Sherlock's tightly.

"I'm going to keep you safe," he said. "I promise."

Sherlock gave a small, nearly inaudible whimper and then a tiny "ok."

John then smiled at him and turned on the TV, and they proceeded to watch an episode of Top Gear in complete silence.


	4. Chapter 4

_Emblazoned_

CHAPTER FOUR

Within the next few weeks, Sherlock had made a good enough recovery to leave the hospital and return to the flat, which was good news for both Sherlock and the hospital staff, who had had quite enough of their eccentric patient's massive complaints of boredom and his constantly trying to sneak out of his room to explore or creating experiments out of his pills and food.

Mrs. Hudson was elated to see Sherlock return, and upon their entry, she had flown out of her own living place with a good sized plate of freshly baked biscuits and had planted a fond, loving kiss on Sherlock's cheek, to which Sherlock responded with a small, secret smile and a quick, uncomfortable hug that seemed to want to last longer than it did.

Afterward, John helped Sherlock up the steps at 221B, despite Sherlock's constant refusal, and opened the door. John walked in, but Sherlock stood in the doorway.

"Coming in?" John asked, turning to look at him. Sherlock stood there, almost uncomfortably, and breathed slowly. He was looking around.

"Everything alright?" John asked, walking up to him and putting a hand on his arm. Sherlock flinched slightly. John sighed and closed his eyes.

"Just...feels odd to be here," Sherlock said. He walked in, looked around, and then turned to John.

"Thank you John," he said quickly. Then he dashed off towards the bathroom. John stood and listened. He heard the door slam and the shower turn on. Glancing at the blaring red numbers on the clock, John saw that it was almost three in the afternoon. He sighed and collapsed on to the couch. He fell asleep instantly.

* * *

><p>When he awoke, John was slightly disoriented. The shower was still going. John looked at the clock. Six in the evening.<p>

"Sherlock?" John called. No answer. He grumbled and stood.

"Idiot's going to waste all the hot water."

He wrapped on the bathroom door. There was steam seeping through the bottom of the door, and when there was no reply to his knock, John opened it.

"Sherlock you've been in here for hours," John said frustratedly, squinting in the dim light and the foggy steam. "Jesus, it's hot in here. Sherlock?"

John waited outside of the curtain, and flicked it once.

"Sherlock are you even in here?"

He pulled the curtain back just a bit, and Sherlock was there. He was looking down, his pale skin now reddened from the heat, his forehead pressed against his arm. He was leaning above the faucet on the wall. John looked down.

"Christ Sherlock you've got it scalding hot," John said, scowling and reaching in to turn the water off. Sherlock didn't move. When the water went off, John nudged Sherlock's bare shoulder. Sherlock flinched and seemed to awaken from his trance.

"John," he said, looking alarmed. "I thought you were taking a nap."

John narrowed his eyes.

"I was. Three hours ago," he said. "You're going to use all the hot water, you git."

The look on Sherlock's face then made John think he should take him to the hospital again. He was so...stricken. His sharpened eyes searched John's face almost frantically, and his mouth was slightly agape. The hue of red that was nearly airbrushed on his face from the heat of the water made him look feverish, and John realized that Sherlock wasn't just being himself, selfishly doing exactly as he pleased.

He was thoroughly, truly, and helplessly confused.

John sighed and softened his own expression, and put his hand on Sherlock's shoulder.

"Well come on then," he said, handing him a towel. "Finish up in the next half hour and I'll take you out for dinner."

Sherlock took the towel and stood there, looking at it as if it were a cadaver. John turned to the mirror, wiped off the condensation which fogged the glass, and examined his reflection while Sherlock stepped slowly out of the shower and began to dry.

"Where are we going," Sherlock asked in more of a declarative tone than an inquisitive one.

"Well, I really liked that one place you took me a while back. The first night we met I think, " John replied, trying to sound calm and cheerful despite the building concern within him.

"Angelo's?"

"Yeah. Good pasta."

"Mm."

"That sound good? Or are you not in the mood for Italian?"

There was no reply, and John turned to see his friend almost directly behind him, the towel wrapped around his waist. He was staring into the mirror. John looked up at him.

"Sherlock?" he said, perhaps quieter than he intended.

The detective was staring pensively into the glass, and tentative hand hovering over his collar bone. His fingers barely grazed his own skin as they trailed down from his collar, between his pectorals, down his abdomen, skimming gently over the bruises and tiny marks on his otherwise flawless skin. This had been Maxim's trail.

John watched him, a lump forming in his throat.

"Sherlock," he said finally, taking the detective's hand, which had stopped just above the towel line. Sherlock shook his head and blinked. He looked away from the mirror and down at John.

"You ok?"

Sherlock licked his lips, as if about to say something, but as he opened his mouth to speak, John's phone went off in his pocket. John sighed and reached into his jeans to retrieve the noisy device.

"Restricted," he said, reading the caller ID. He looked at Sherlock, who shrugged and looked at the phone.

"Answer it," he said. John did so.

"John Watson," he said.

"Evening, John."

Mycroft. John gave a quick look to Sherlock, who simply narrowed his eyes in question.

"Is Sherlock around?" Mycroft asked. His normal tone of authority was lost. There was something else.

"Why didn't you call his phone?" John said, more irritably than he anticipated. He cleared his throat. "And yes, he's right in front of me."

"I'd like to speak with him," Mycroft answered, disregarding John's previous question.

"Well...he may not want to-"

"It's imperative that I speak with him, John Watson."

There it was. The commanding voice that Mycroft seemed to bend reality with. John sighed.

"Hang on," he said. He took the phone away from his face and looked up at Sherlock, who was waiting patiently.

"It's your brother," he said delicately. "He said he needs to talk to you."

Instead of the normal protest that John expected, Sherlock merely held out his hand and muttered a monotonous "alright." With some confusion, he handed him the phone.

"Mycroft," Sherlock said, turning away from John.

John watched Sherlock's back, sculpted and toned and damn well near perfect, sans the traces of bruises and a slow healing shallow stab wound. His skin was pulled taut across his frame, as if it were pale tapestry. The last traces of moisture that were speckled onto the canvas of skin made him glisten just so, and John's eyes traced the outline of Sherlock's body over and over again.

_ Ravaged._

John shuddered.

"Yes, I am," Sherlock said almost weakly after a beat of silence. "Is there anything else you needed?"

John went back to looking at the mirror, though he still could see Sherlock's reflection out of the corner of his eye.

"Alright."

That silken voice, now course and strained.

_Ravaged._

John ran a hand through his hair.

"I know...good bye, Mycroft."

_ Ravaged._

John swallowed, composed himself, and looked back at his friend.

"What was that about?" he asked. Sherlock turned and handed John his phone.

"Nothing," he said dismissively. "I'll go get dressed, and then we can leave."

John nodded once as Sherlock left the room. There he was. He was putting up his walls again. He was letting his logic mask his emotions. He was forcing them down, deep down to wherever Sherlock Holmes kept them, in that deep-set reservoir of humanity and feeling. But his eyes, filled with pain, emblazoned with the brand that he had forgone receiving.

_ Ravaged._

John turned to the mirror again. He sighed heavily, harshly, and then he angrily swiped the toothbrushes and soap and anything else that had had the misfortune of being on the mantle of the sink that day clear off the ivory surface, and the items clattered haphazardly onto the tile floor.

Bracing himself, with both hands gripping the edges of the sink, John glared into the mirror.

"God," he ground out. "Why...?"

A knock interrupted him.

"John?" Sherlock said from the other side of the wooden barrier. "I'm ready when you are."

John sighed deeply.

"Coming now," he said. He hastily cleaned up the small mess he made and glanced over the room once more before he walked out of the door. He met Sherlock in the living room.

"Alright," he said with a smile that he knew Sherlock noticed was false. "Ready?"

Sherlock looked at him. He was on his phone, texting.

"Yes," he said before looking down to finish the message. When he finished, he reached over to grab his wallet off the mantel. John opened the door.

"I'm buying," he said. Sherlock shoved the leather case into his back pocket and grabbed his coat and scarf off the chair.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. Consider it a celebration of your return."

Sherlock donned his signature get up, pulling the scarf around his neck slightly tighter than normal, and shoved his phone into his deep pockets. He gave one nod to John, and the two walked out the door.

* * *

><p>The dinner carried on in complete silence. Sherlock, surprisingly, actually ordered some food and ate it with a newfound eagerness. John watched him. He was intent on the plate, eating hastily but delicately. It was only when John spoke that he looked up and seemingly realized he was there.<p>

"Lestrade said we should take a holiday."

Sherlock cocked his head.

"Why?"

John sighed and took a sip of wine.

"He said it might be a good idea if we stayed away from cases for a while," he said as nonchalantly as possible. Sherlock seemed to think hard about this, chewing rather deliberately on a piece of broccoli.

"I'm fine," he said finally. "I'm absolutely fine. I can work."

John chuckled.

"I know you can, Sherlock," he said. He looked at him. "But I think it might be a good idea anyway. It might be...fun."

Sherlock scoffed and sat back in his chair. He wiped his mouth, laid the napkin down, took a drink of wine. John devoured these simple movements, his eyes watching the man before him so intently that he was afraid people might find it odd.

"If you wanted a break you could have just asked," Sherlock said finally. John cocked his head.

"No," he said. "Lestrade actually told me not to even let you work on cases. And that he'd pay for a holiday, wherever we wanted."

Sherlock looked up and sighed before looking back at John. He looked at John with a hard but heartfelt stare.

"I need to work, John," he stated. "I can't take a holiday. Ever. I have to work."

John looked down at his food, defeated. He knew the answer would be as such. He knew that Sherlock could only stay sane if he had something to do, and taking a holiday would mean not doing anything. It wouldn't be a relaxing retreat, it'd be torture.

"But," Sherlock said. John looked up. The detective's face was softer, thoughtful.

"But?" John encouraged.

"I suppose," Sherlock began. "I suppose if you would like to take a holiday..."

He trailed off. John watched him, waiting.

"It'd have to be a place where I could do something," Sherlock said finally. "It can't be some place...with things like...carnivals or...pointless things..."

"No place fun, got it," John said with a smile. Sherlock sighed, but it was also through a smile.

"And I have to be able to work from there," Sherlock said. "I um..." He looked away from John then, and he laid his hands flat on the table cloth. "I've had a case in mind that I would like to work on."

"Oh? Already?" John said with a twinge of concern. "When'd you plan on telling me about it? What do we need to-"

"I'm doing it by myself, John," Sherlock dead panned. John sat back. "I've got to just work on it by myself."

"Alright," John said finally after a brief pause. There was silence, except for the clatter of silverware, the idle chatter, and the occasional throat clearing from Sherlock after he took a sip of wine.

"So where did you have in mind?" Sherlock asked. John had since commenced to finish his meal of chicken marsala, and he said with a full mouth.

"I've never been to Ireland."

"Boring," Sherlock said off handedly, but upon seeing John's defeated reaction, he added. "But it's very beautiful."

"So I've heard," John replied. He dabbed at his mouth with the napkin. "But really, I don't care where we go. Just need to get away for a while."

Sherlock was resting his head in his palm, his elbow at a perfect angle with the table. His eyes were stone, searching the dining room for nothing in particular. He was lost in his mind. John sighed. He knew that Sherlock had virtually no idea how to deal with all the things going on within him, and quite frankly, John himself wasn't sure how he should deal with them either. All the same, the detective's normal reclusive attitude was only further exemplified by the deep pain that was so glaringly apparent in his eyes.

"Sherlock," John said gently. He put a hand on Sherlock's arm, to which Sherlock responded with a light flinch.

"Yes?" he said hoarsely.

"Please talk to me," John said. It was like trying to find hay in a needle stack when it came to getting Sherlock to talk about his feelings. He learned that he could tell by Sherlock's body language whether or not he could pry and get somewhere, or if he should just drop the whole thing. He was praying he wouldn't have to.

"What's there to talk about?" Sherlock asked honestly.

"Sherlock," John said, moving his hand up and down Sherlock's arm once. "I know you're...overwhelmed. I can tell. Talk to me about it, Sherlock. Please. Maybe I can help you."

Sherlock seemed to deliberate over this. He looked at John, jaw set firmly in place and eyes giving way to nothing. John felt as though he would get nowhere, since he knew that when Sherlock got tense the matter was over, but as he took his hand away and continued to fumble with the rest of his dinner, Sherlock said, in a heartbreakingly sad voice.

"I'm sorry, John."

John looked up, nearly astonished, at his friend. Sherlock's eyes were rimmed lightly with red and pink, and they shone more prominently than usual. His cheeks were flushed. He had his hands clasped firmly together on the table.

"Sorry for...?" John asked, knowing full well now that Sherlock was on the verge of losing it.

"I...I..." the detective's voice was brittle and weak.

John watched him as his glassy eyes darted this way and that, searching for something that couldn't be found. He was making observations, studying every detail, clinging to the only things that made sense to him. Logic, reason, explanation. John reached over and grasped Sherlock's tense hands.

"It's alright, you're alright," he said gently, his thumb stroking Sherlock's pale, cool skin. Sherlock looked up forlornly at him, a single tear breaking free and trickling down his face. John sighed through a sad smile.

"Ireland sounds nice," Sherlock finally squeaked. John chuckled and pat Sherlock's hand.

"Alright," John said. "Do you want to go now?"

It was like a parent asking a shaken child. Sherlock nodded, sniffing and wiping hurriedly at his face. John stood and reached into his jacket pocket for his wallet while Sherlock composed himself. John watched him.

"You ok?" he finally asked after Sherlock had taken a few deep breaths and a few more sips of wine.

"Yes," he said quietly. "I'm fine." He took a slow breath and looked up at John, who had lain a reasonable tip on the table.

"Do you have a cigarette?" he asked innocently, as if he were asking the time or how his sister was. John sighed.

"Sherlock..."

"Just tonight, John. Please."

John sighed heavily.

"Fine. I don't have any, but we can buy you some on the way home."

"Thank you."

The two walked out of the restaurant, and down the street in silence. Sherlock's hands were shoved deep into his pockets, and he had nestled his mouth and nose into his scarf. John walked beside him in the quiet, squinting in the bitter cold night air.

"Feels like it might snow," John said. Sherlock glanced at him and nodded once. John watched him. He was receding again, shrinking into himself, like he often did when Mycroft chose to scold his little brother in front of John. He would use that tone, that accusatory, all-knowing tone, and Sherlock could do nothing but sheepishly coincide with his brother's demands, embarrassment and anger seething and swirling within him. John knew how much Sherlock hated it when Mycroft chose to demote him in front of others, and he also knew how much Mycroft loved it.

John reached over and put an arm around Sherlock's mid-back, since he was admittedly too short to reach around the man's shoulders. Sherlock looked at him with confusion at first, slowing his pace to a brief stop. John smiled at him, a smile that said "just let it be," and the two continued on down the sidewalk towards the drug store, John's strong, protecting arm tight and snug around Sherlock's rigid frame.

And as the clock sounded, echoing deep into the abyssal night, snow began to fall over London.


	5. Chapter 5

_Emblazoned_

CHAPTER FIVE

"Ireland," Sherlock said definitively. "John wants to go to Ireland. So we're going to Ireland."

"Yeah, I heard you," Lestrade said as he haphazardly shuffled papers and dismissed ringing phones. Scotland Yard was a mess today. Paperwork was late, cases were everywhere, and for some reason the entire world wanted Lestrade's attention.

"I don't see why you want us gone, anyway," Sherlock said sourly, sitting back on the small futon in Lestrade's office. "I could help with all..." He waved his hand in the air dismissively. "...this."

"No," Lestrade sighed, finally sitting in his chair and looking towards Sherlock. He crossed his arms and leaned back. "We can function without you. We'll be fine. We didn't always have you, you know."

"What a dark time that must have been," Sherlock mused, to which Lestrade responded with a dismissive huff and a grumble as his phone rang yet again. Sherlock looked out into the chaotic work floor and spotted John, who was desperately trying to make his way back into the office from the lounge without spilling coffee on anyone who crossed his path. He finally made it to the door and closed it with a sigh of relief.

"It's a war zone out there," he said, handing a cup to Sherlock. He plopped lightly on the futon next to him. "And I've been in a war zone before, so that's saying a lot."

Lestrade hung up the phone on the receiver with a sigh.

"Amazing what people categorize as a matter of criminal importance," he muttered as he regarded the two from his desk. "Now, Sherlock mentioned Ireland. Several times. Is that for certain then?"

John nodded as he swallowed a gulp of coffee and smiled.

"Finally got him to agree to it, yes," he said cheerily. He pat Sherlock's knee, and Sherlock flinched just barely. John sighed and sipped his coffee once more.

Lestrade took note of Sherlock's resistance to the touch, and his face went grim.

"Alright then," he said. "But in all seriousness, you two are alright? We're doing the best we can to make this as prioritized as possible without getting too noisy about it."

He looked at Sherlock, who was intently educating himself on the apparently very intriguing rim of his Styrofoam coffee cup.

"Sherlock...we're not going to let this happen again."

"I'm sure," Sherlock said distractedly. He looked at Lestrade then, stone cold eyes glazed with exhaustion. "You're busy already, don't busy yourself with this. Besides, I've already-"

Lestrade held up his hand.

"You are not going to work on this," he said firmly. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Already have," he said. "Thought you weren't my handler anyway."

John looked slightly alarmed and regarded Sherlock with an inquisitive look. Sherlock looked at his friend and shrugged, shaking his head carelessly and taking a sip of coffee.

"If it's any consolation," Sherlock offered. "I don't plan on pursuing...them...by myself. Or at all, really. I just want to...know. I have to know why..."

He trailed off, looking away from them with a swallow and a slight shake of his head. John shot a look to Lestrade, who seemed a bit perplexed. John knew that Lestrade didn't exactly understand how to deal with this new Sherlock that was presented before him. The vulnerable Sherlock. The confused one. The damaged one.

John stood, seeming to alleviate the tension.

"Well, I think we're all decided about Ireland then, right?" he quipped, looking at Sherlock encouragingly. "Let us know when we're good to go, alright?" Sherlock glanced at him and nodded once. Lestrade blinked and nodded, shaking him from his thoughts.

"Right then," he said. "I'll make the arrangements with the powers that be, and I can probably manage to get you two on a flight by the day after tomorrow." He smiled and stood as John went to shake his hand.

"Thanks for this," John said quietly. Lestrade glanced over at Sherlock, who was standing at the door, his back to them, hands shoved deep in his pockets.

"Just...take care of him, John," Lestrade said finally, locking eyes with the doctor. "No telling what'll come of this. Hopefully we'll get back into the swing of things."

John smiled sadly and nodded.

"Of course," he said. "Take care Greg."

"Try to get some rest, for Christ's sake," Lestrade said to Sherlock with a sarcastic smile as Sherlock opened the door.

"Thank you, Lestrade," Sherlock replied indifferently as he dropped his now empty coffee cup into the rubbish bin. John followed suit, and the two made their way out of the office, leaving Lestrade to return to his tedious phone calls and unsolved cases.

Sherlock was eager to get out of the building, it seemed. He kept darting this way and that, his eyes flickering and his movements short and quick. John was beginning to get out of breath trying to follow him as they crossed the work floor. Unfortunately, Sherlock rounded a corner a bit sharply, and it just so happened that Sergeant Donovan was making her way around the same corner with an almighty stack of paperwork.

Sherlock collided full on with Donovan, and in a flurry of papers and swearing, Donovan staggered back against a wall and Sherlock was left to stumble up against his shorter companion.

"Jesus shit!" Donovan said angrily as she collected herself. John practically fell over himself as the tree trunk of Sherlock's body came crashing into him, but they managed to regain balance as Donovan realized the situation.

"Oh," she said. "Um...hey."

Sherlock huffed and straightened his coat as John appeared behind him, slightly bewildered.

"Apologies," he muttered curtly. He bent down to collect her papers. Both John and Sally exchanged glances and small smiles.

"Don't worry, I'll get it," she said to Sherlock as she stooped to the floor and grabbed the remaining papers. Sherlock handed her the ones he'd picked up, and they simultaneously stood.

"Busy today, are we?" John said cheerily. Sally huffed through a smile.

"Unfortunately," she said, flipping a wisp of curls out of her face. "Nothing we can't handle though."

Sherlock appeared flustered, and Sally shot him a curious look before stepping away from the wall.

"Well, gotta get this done," she said, bustling past them. John nodded her a good bye and when he looked back, Sherlock was already heading out the door. John sighed and trotted up to him.

The snow covered ground was unwelcome to Sherlock Holmes. Despite his normal agility and impossible dexterity, he was wretchedly awful at maneuvering on wet ground. John had once been rounding a corner during one of their thrilling chases through the backstreets of London when he had found the ebon detective, quite frankly, flat on his back like a troubled turtle, groaning frustratedly. He had practically flipped over when he had slipped on a wet patch of ground-it had just rained-and John had stifled his laughter as the other man had moaned about his bruised tailbone for a good three days following the incident.

Because of this slight hindrance, Sherlock tended to walk very deliberately, more so than usual, when inclement weather conditions were running amuck. John found it much easier to keep up with the detective this way, since he would slow his purposeful pace and shorten his otherwise ridiculously long stride.

"Call a cab?" John offered after a good bit of silence while the two were walking. Sherlock shook his head.

"Rather walk," he said. John cocked his head.

"You?" he asked, incredulously. "You want to walk all the way from the Yard to our flat...in the snow?" Sherlock looked down at him.

"Yes," he said matter-of-factually. "Problem?" John shook his head and smiled.

"No, just odd for you is all," he said as he admired the snow speckled London around them. He heard Sherlock sigh lightly.

"John," he said. John looked up at him. The detective's eyes were grave. "I'm not...myself. Obviously. And today I want to walk. In the snow. In the cold. Because I am not myself."

The declarative, nearly agitated tone in Sherlock's voice made John feel guilty for even asking, but he nodded as if he understood.

"It's fine, you know," he said after a long silence. "To not be yourself sometimes."

Sherlock scoffed.

"I'm serious," John said pressingly. "Especially for you." Sherlock smirked at him as they approached the flat. As Sherlock was fumbling for his keys, John watched the detective.

His breath came like smoke from his lips, which were light and pale in the cold. His nose was slightly reddened, and his eyes were brilliantly bright. John loved how the weather seemed to reflect itself in Sherlock's eyes. For instance, whenever it rained, Sherlock's eyes would glow a murky pool of blue and green, like oil paints smeared on a canvas, but in the sun, they were a brilliant sea foam green with star bursts of turquoise, shining and glittering with such magnificence that it made John almost envious. In the snow, Sherlock's eyes were a hard, diamond silver blue with just tiny traces of green, like glistening marbles in the face of a porcelain doll. But, as of late, there was always some overcast in Sherlock's eyes. A confusion, a concentration, a horror that the detective couldn't erase and that John couldn't bring himself to delve into.

John caught himself staring again, and, to his surprise-and perhaps dismay-Sherlock was staring back with his precious glass orbs.

"Something wrong?" he asked. John shook his head, partly to answer and partly to clear his head of the images.

"Fine," he said. "Let's get inside. I'm freezing."

Sherlock flicked his silvery globes up and down John's face once before deciding not to pursue the subject any further and enter.

When they reached their flat, a tray of freshly made peanut butter biscuits and two steaming mugs of hot chocolate was sitting on the coffee table with a note in flowery handwriting that said:

"_Out for the evening-keep yourselves warm! Sherlock, save some of these for John you greedy git! Love! Mrs. H xx" _

John's face lit up.

"She is a magnificent woman," he declared as he picked up a mug and sipped the brew with a welcome smile. Sherlock said nothing and shed his coat and scarf. He tossed them over the chair and plopped on the couch with an exasperated sigh. He curiously watched John as he set his mug down and hung his parka lovingly on the coat hook, then retrieved the beverage again along with a biscuit and sat next to Sherlock on the couch happily. Sherlock looked at him.

"Those are my favourite," he said, eyeing the biscuit. "Mrs. Hudson only ever makes those when she wants me to do something for her."

John shrugged and bit into the morsel. He made a face of ecstasy before looking at Sherlock.

"I know," he said, munching. "But maybe she just felt like making some this time."

Sherlock shrugged.

"Maybe," he said, sitting back. John narrowed his eyes.

"Maybe?" he said.

"That is what I said John, yes," Sherlock replied, closing his eyes and folding his hands in his lap.

"You never say maybe," John remarked before taking another bite of the biscuit. Sherlock looked at him and sat up again. John looked back, chewing thoughtfully and smirking.

"Problem?" he asked when Sherlock kept staring. He washed down the sweet snack with a swig of cocoa, and then sat back on the couch with a look of satisfaction.

"John," Sherlock said gravely. John was slightly alarmed by the sudden change in tone, and he looked at his flat mate inquisitively.

"What is it?" John asked. Sherlock drew close to him, his face coming closer and closer to John's. John was confused.

"And...is there a reason why you're this close to me?" he said quietly, hesitantly. Sherlock put a hand on John's chest, and looked down at it.

"If," he began in a small voice. "If I asked you to do something that you may not want to do...would you do it? Would you do it for me?"

John cocked his head as Sherlock looked back up at him. His eyes were glazed and hazy, but ever calculating. John sat, captivated briefly, before licking his lips and opening his mouth.

"Sherlock...what do you-"

The detective didn't allow for any more chatter as he leaned closer and pressed his lips against the flabbergasted doctor's in a small, innocent kiss. John had absolutely no idea how to react as Sherlock's hand made its way to John's face, his cold fingers brushing his cheek as his lips were locked with the other man's. Sherlock's other arm snaked itself around John's waist, pulling them even closer as the kiss now intensified, Sherlock's lips nipping at John's and hungrily prying against them.

A small, subconscious moan seeped from the side of John's mouth, and his hand rose from his side to the nape of Sherlock's long neck, entwining his fingers in the detective's murky curls.

Sherlock broke away and looked at John with eyes of flame.

"Sherlock," John said in a hoarse whisper. "Why did you...?"

The silver eyes that stared into John's blue ones made him nearly melt. He didn't know what to say, how to say it, or what words even existed to describe what he was thinking and feeling. Sherlock's thumb lightly stroked John's cheek, and John pursed his lips and looked down.

"What just happened?" he asked, removing his hand and crossing his arms. Sherlock looked surprised, then sat back and looked at John, blushing just so.

"Is that...not good?" he asked, his voice quiet. John sighed through a smile.

"No, it's fine," he said. Something was tugging at his heart, tugging him closer to Sherlock again, leaning into him again, wrapping his arms around him, kneading his fingers into his curls, bringing his lips to press against his once more...

_Beautiful._

The one word that kept dancing in John's head as he kissed his flat mate was _beautiful_. The moment, the feeling, the man he was locked together with...all beautiful in John Watson's mind and perception.

A sigh here, a moan there, a touch, a graze, a nip, a tug. Garments beginning to be pulled off a long pale body, but slowly, gently, so not to alarm him and his anticipation.

Hesitant eyes, then, as the younger man's chest is bared. Fear, gut wrenching memories, a swallow, shifting eyes, some resistance, but the sandy blond's smile is tender, welcoming, and he trusts him as his calloused soldier hands ran across the barren white skin, his lips soon to follow.

John kissed Sherlock's neck and down along his collar bone, Sherlock's head tipped back, eyes closed, drinking in the feelings of the gentle encounter. John's kisses traveled with delicate precision across Sherlock's chest, slowly making their way down to his concave belly, rising and falling just so.

John then reached a thin trail of delicate hair, brown with hints of peachy red, that traced a barely noticeable path down from Sherlock's naval and below. John smiled and grazed his lips across the soft line, amusing himself at entertaining the thought that Sherlock's pubic hair may have traces of red in it. He felt Sherlock's breath hitch, and he felt the man's hand grip his scarred shoulder. One intimate second to the next, touching lightly, John's tongue flicked out from between his lips and slid tenderly across the sensitive skin along Sherlock's pant line.

_Beautiful..._

Suddenly, a violent tremor erupted within Sherlock's frame, and he jolted into an upright position with a gasp.

"No," he suddenly said definitively. John seemed to awaken from a trance, shaking his head. He looked up at Sherlock with questioning eyes.

"What?" he asked, slightly alarmed at Sherlock's trembling hands. "Everything alright? Are you ok?"

He brought his hand up to stroke Sherlock's face gently, but Sherlock recoiled and made a small gasp again, eyes closed firmly. John slowly retracted his hand, sitting upright once again and running his hand through his hair. He sighed. The two remained still.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock said after a long silence. "I wanted to...just to see if..."

John shook his head.

"Stop there," he said, holding up a hand and smirking. He watched Sherlock's still shaking hands frantically try to button his light blue shirt. John smiled sadly and reached over, taking the detective's hands. Sherlock looked down at him, eyes glazed and chest heaving just slightly.

"Sh, let me," John said quietly as he began to button Sherlock's shirt. Sherlock sat completely still, slowly calming himself, watching John still with hazy silver spheres.

"There now," John said after he hinged the last button. "We ok?" He had the tone of a mother comforting a child with a scraped knee, tenderly patting Sherlock's arm.

Sherlock looked at him, blinking away light tears. He cleared his throat.

"Fine," he said distantly, looking away and composing himself. Sheltering himself. He stood.

"I'm going to pack," he declared. And with that, he stepped over the coffee table and went into his bedroom, closing the door with an agitated slam. John was left to sit, bewildered and bemused, on the sofa, the sensations still imprinted on his fingers and lips, the images still fresh in his mind...

...and the uncomfortable bulge in his pants.

* * *

><p>John had busied himself with packing clothes and essentials for the trip and tidying the flat to the best of his ability. He admittedly couldn't put away much, since Sherlock's mess was strictly prohibited from cleaning. He organized papers into piles and straightened some lab equipment, then went to check his email. A thought then occurred to him.<p>

His blog.

He hadn't updated since the incident, the previous entry only briefly mentioning the fact that Sherlock and he were to pursue the case of The Merchants. He had then proceeded to insert a witty speculation about how he would enjoy a holiday sometime, though he didn't anticipate one any time soon.

He swallowed. There was no doubt in his mind that he absolutely could not blog about this particular incident, but at the same time, he felt as though if he didn't it'd literally rip apart his insides. He glanced at his phone, laying idly next to his laptop on the rather beaten desktop. He entertained the thought of calling Mycroft, since he obviously knew about the event, Lord knew how-Sherlock was sure that he had bugged the flat-but something told John that talking to Mycroft probably wouldn't get much off his chest and would only do more harm than good, seeing as how he probably thought that it was John's fault to begin with.

Of course, it was impossible to tell with the Holmes brothers. John sighed exasperatedly and rubbed his eyes. He closed the laptop. Not going to tackle that train of thought now.

Finally, John settled down in his chair for a cup of tea and some more of Mrs. Hudson's biscuits. The TV was blathering in the background, the fire he had started was mumbling gently, and John Watson, after much deliberation, decided to allow himself to contemplate the previous events of that afternoon.

He couldn't remember the last time any one person gave him the exhilaration and the elation he felt when his skin had touched Sherlock's. Not even all his girlfriends elicited such feelings from him and such deep sensations. It made him crave it now, want to go into Sherlock's room and rip his clothes off and make love to him all day until dehydration and exhaustion simply took over their bodies and minds and they fell asleep in each other's arms.

He looked down the hall towards Sherlock's door. John knew that this was, of course, nothing but a fantasy, but then, Sherlock _was_ the one who had initiated.

That was another thing. _Sherlock_ had initiated it. _Sherlock_ had kissed him. Even after all that happened, Sherlock, the one who barely wanted to shake hands with people, the one who grimaced at the thought of love and sentiment, the one who mocked John's human impulse for "unnecessary physical attachment;" Sherlock had created the swirling, desire driven atmosphere. And honestly, John was surprised he had reciprocated.

But what is all that surprising? John had been thinking for a long time about his feelings towards Sherlock. About how he would wake in the night with curious thoughts and remnants of dreams that he was too embarrassed to let himself think about, or the twinges of jealously he got when Molly would so obviously flirt with him, or the times when he wondered what Sherlock's face looked like when...and of course there was the staring. His fascination with the man he lived with _had_ to be more than just living with him, and John Watson was well aware of this. It was only now that John had actually explored the idea that maybe he was in fact attracted to Sherlock Holmes.

John chose to save those thoughts for later as he glanced at the clock. Dinner time had rolled around, and Sherlock hadn't emerged from his room for a few hours, which was pretty normal, all things considered. However, John had a feeling the detective could do with some of the leftover Chinese in the fridge, and so he arose from his chair and knocked on Sherlock's door.

"You awake in there?"

"Mm."

"I'm going to heat up some Chinese. Want some?"

There was a shuffling.

"Sherlock?"

"Five minutes. Rice is fine for me."

"Alright then."

John made his way to the kitchen and retrieved the white cartons from the top shelf, safe from the experiments below. Sure enough, five minutes later, Sherlock emerged dazedly from the hall. John had prepared a good sized portion of rice and noodles for good measure on a paper plate, and had set it across from where he currently sat, munching on some steamed vegetables. Sherlock sat, his shirt slightly wrinkled and his hair a bit haphazard.

"Have a nap, did you?" John asked. Sherlock nodded once, and didn't seem to notice the food. John gestured.

"Got you your rice."

"Yes."

John watched Sherlock curiously. He had a delirious look in his eye, and he seemed to be searching the table.

"You alright?" John asked. Sherlock looked up at him, eyebrows raised. His eyes were bloodshot and rimmed.

_Not again..._

"I'm fi-"

"Where are they?"

Sherlock cocked his head. John put his utensil down and stared at Sherlock with controlled anger.

"_Where_ are they?" he asked again. Sherlock looked down.

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

John slammed his hands flat the table.

"Christ Sherlock!" he said angrily. "I'm not an idiot. You seem to forget that I'm a _doctor_, you clot! I know when people are hurting, I know when they're sick, and I _know_, Sherlock, when they're _high!"_

Sherlock said nothing. John sighed rigidly.

"What is it this time?" he asked slowly.

"Seven percent," Sherlock answered with quiet disdain. John ran his hands across his face and breathed a "Christ" before looking at Sherlock and standing.

"Give it to me," he said. "Or I'll go into your bedroom and find it."

Sherlock looked up at him.

"Don't be angry," he said.

John shook his head.

"No, we're not doing this. Not this time," he said. "Give me the cocaine, Sherlock."

The curly head hung low and there was a tense silence. John shook his head bitterly and clenched his fists.

"Fine," he said. He stormed out of the room and threw the door open to Sherlock's. There was a suitcase in the corner, packed and ready, and the bed was only slightly messed. Other than that, nothing was out of place.

John angrily threw every drawer open and tore clothes from the closet in a frenzy. Don't talk to your friend, just shoot up your coke. Don't let him comfort you, just get high and sleep. Don't come to his room in the middle of the night and let him tell you everything will be alright, just wake the entire street with your stupid violin playing. Don't let him take care of you, just push him away, and let the drugs keep you distant.

At some point, the search became a flurry of swearing and growling and throwing things. Sherlock watched from the doorway.

Finally, John sat on the end of the bed and put his head in his hands.

"You," he said shakily, his voice laced with fury. "You are the...absolute stupidest..."

He couldn't find words in his anger. He could only sit and fume. Sherlock came up and sat next to him.

They sat in complete stillness and silence until John finally spoke.

"Where is it?"

"Under the bed."

John laughed bitterly.

"The one place I didn't look..."

"I knew you wouldn't, since you normally-"

"Don't."

"Alright."

John heaved a very long sigh, sitting upright and gripping his knees. He looked at Sherlock.

"I'm angry with you," he said. "Very, very...very angry."

"I know."

John nodded once and looked down.

"I just don't understand," he said. "Why don't you just let me help you? Cocaine won't help you, Sherlock. Nicotine and chemicals won't help you. Let me help you."

Sherlock remained quiet.

"That's your biggest, most idiotically simple problem," John said, looking at him again. "You just don't _let_ people. You say you don't have friends, that being alone suits you, but do you really even understand how wrong, how unhealthy that is?"

Sherlock visibly swallowed, looking down.

"I mean, Christ, Sherlock, I'm right here! I'm right here in front of you and I have been since I limped up that bloody staircase on the first afternoon we met! But you just don't...you don't see that. You don't see me. You don't see anyone. All you see is who's got a smudge of what where and what does it mean, or who has some kind of _something_ on their fingers and where it came from, or some other rubbish. Well guess what, genius? I'm John Watson, and I'm with you, and analyzing everyone and everything can't save you or help you or make you feel ok. I can."

There was a thick silence before Sherlock spoke quietly.

"Ireland will be cold," he said. "Bring your parka."

John sighed heavily.

"I know," he said. "I know."


	6. Chapter 6

NOTE: Thanks to all my devoted readers! Sorry the previous chapter took so long. In this chapter, hidden in the tiny mentioning of otherwise passer-by observations, there's some shout outs to two of my favourite people in the fandom: Damagoed, writer of awesome Sherlock fanfictions, and jackroxby, king of all things Glamlock. You guys are super cool kids, and I wanted to say so by including a remnant of you in some way in my fic. Enjoy!

* * *

><p><em>Emblazoned<em>

CHAPTER SIX

Sherlock Holmes could not stand the sight, smell, or atmosphere of airports. Airports meant noisy luggage and stupid people, his brother's hand crushing his own and the sharp commands of his mother; "keep up with me boys," "I'll leave you behind if you don't hurry," "you'd better not be forgetting anything," and etc. Sherlock remembered being relatively young whenever he first beheld the monolith of an escapade at an airport. His brother was back from boarding school for the holiday, and his mother had decided they were to venture to Rome to spend "quality time" before Mycroft left. Sherlock was vehemently against it, but he had no say in anything. He never did.

And so he was dragged ruthlessly by his brother across the dirty tile floors, skipping and limping just to keep up, his suitcase clattering behind him and his precious knapsack bumping gently against his tiny frame. His mother never checked to see if they were keeping up, only ever stating the occasional "Mycroft step lively" or "Mycroft hold onto your brother" or "Mycroft let's keep up now" as they approached the luggage check. It was in one of the moments when their mother was very far ahead of them and Mycroft's hand was practically rearranging Sherlock's carpels when Sherlock had to very urgently answer one of nature's most inconvenient calls.

"Mycroft," he said weakly. "Mycroft tell mummy to wait up. I have to _go_."

"No time," Mycroft said dismissively. "You should have gone before we left." Sherlock whimpered and wiggled out of his brother's grasp. Mycroft turned to glare angrily at him.

"I didn't have to go then! Please!"

Mycroft sneered.

"I'll leave you if you don't hurry," he said, mimicking the tone of their mother, who was already nearing the gate. Sherlock nodded vigorously, his bouncy, light curls bobbing up and down before he scuttled off to the men's lavatory, Mycroft tapping his foot impatiently outside. After about a minute, Sherlock had hurriedly emptied his bladder and had run out of the men's room, found Mycroft beginning to walk away, and sped after him, not even realizing until they had been seated comfortably in first class that his knapsack, containing his absolute favourite books and a tiny stuffed tiger named Jack, was nestled lonesomely next to a toilet in the loo.

He had cried the Nile river that day. Yes, Sherlock Holmes hated airports.

However, airports were one of John Watson's secret favourites in the world. He loved sitting in the slightly uncomfortable chairs, watching the thousands of different types of people from all over the world, coming and going, their lives coinciding for only just a moment before they boarded their separate fly birds and took off into the big blue. Ever since John was a boy, he had been fascinated with the idea of flight, but his fear of heights-which he had learned to outgrow upon joining the forces-had prevented any further aspirations in the field. His only consolation was the occasional family vacation to far away places. His mum and dad would be walking just ahead of his sister and him, holding hands and looking over their shoulder with smiles of excitement, singing out to them "stay with us now, kids! Don't want to get lost!" He and his sister would dazedly follow their parents, bumbling through the sliding doors and beholding the barrage of rolling suitcases and unfamiliar faces that flooded John's senses euphorically.

His tiny legs would feebly toddle onto the aircraft with rigid apprehension but curious fascination. It was the exhilaration that he enjoyed most, his fear and his adventurous nature colliding when he approached the gate, clinging to his carry on and his favourite green stuffed hippo, taking a seat at the window, not daring to look through but wanting ever so much to do so. Yes, John Watson loved airports.

And so here they were, John Watson and Sherlock Holmes, standing at the gate to board their plane, John looking ridiculously elated and Sherlock merely scowling, arms crossed. John had encouraged Sherlock to wear more comfortable, less formal clothes for the holiday, a request to which Sherlock reluctantly complied, and so he stood in a pair of hardly worn designer jeans and a black buttoned top, one of his usual. He had rolled up his sleeves, his coat folded over his arm and his scarf hanging about his neck. He stood, hip cocked, chewing his lip, with narrow eyes of discontent.

John himself stood in his usual jumper-jeans get up, staring happily at the other man as the gate opened and people bustled in. Sherlock's eyes whipped back and forth around the crowd, examining faces and making observations. They were to fly first class, courtesy of Scotland Yard (perhaps because Sherlock would not settle for anything less), and John was ecstatic. He had never flown first class, and his radiant smile would not leave his face.

"Stop being such a grump," he said to Sherlock as they walked towards the plane. "You look like someone kicked your violin." Sherlock glared at him, mouth slightly agape, seeming to be almost offended at the analogy before answering with a stiff "shut up" as the two strode past other passengers and finally arrived behind the first class curtain. Sherlock took a seat as if they were still in their flat, flopping grumpily in one of the chairs, while John, ecstatic, plopped gently across from him. Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at him, regarding him out of the corner of his eye, his hands steepled, pressed against his lips.

"What's got you so happy anyway?" he asked monotonously. John turned to him with a smile.

"Just excited is all," he said. "Aren't you?" Sherlock shrugged and turned his gaze towards the window again. John watched him, waiting for the response he wouldn't receive, before he spoke again.

"Sherlock," he said.

"Mm."

"You ok?"

"You've been a fan of asking that question quite often as of late."

John huffed.

"I just...worry is all."

"Mm..."

John sighed, decided the subject was pointless, and leaned back in his chair comfortably. Sherlock Holmes' sour puss routine would not ruin this for him.

After a long silence, John taking full advantage of the first class perks, including a marvelous breakfast, Sherlock spoke.

"You want to talk about it," he dead panned, his position having not changed, sans for his gaze, regarding John with steely eyes of scrutiny. John wiped his mouth as he finished the last bit of waffles before sitting back and crossing his arms.

"Talk about what?"

Sherlock shook his head only slightly and shrugged, folding his hands.

"Haven't the slightest," he said off-handedly. "But you want to talk about it, whatever it is. It's why you keep asking if I'm ok."

John rubbed the back of his neck and sighed. He knew this would have to happen, and Sherlock was right (as usual, which made him only a little bit miffed), he _did_ want to talk. He needed to, even if Sherlock didn't. He needed to. Desperately.

Sherlock looked at John expectedly, breathing evenly, waiting. John waited for the stewardess to come take the dishes away before he leaned over his knees and looked up at Sherlock.

"I'm worried about you," he said. Sherlock sighed his normal "boring" sighs, but John held up a hand.

"Just hear me out," he insisted. "I always worry about you, since you have this...uncanny ability to scare the shit out of me, jumping off rooftops, running about in traffic, coming home with hypothermia because you nearly drowned in the Thames at 3 am-"

"That was once, and it wasn't my fault-"

"Regardless," John said shortly, glaring annoyingly before continuing. "I worry. But this is different, Sherlock. This time...well this time don't you think I _should_ be worried?"

Sherlock breathed in slowly, closing his eyes and grazing his fingers over his lips before looking at John, sitting back and placing his hands on the arms of the seat.

"I suppose it's inevitable," he said. "Nothing I can alter about your state of mind."

John shook his head.

"That's not what I mean," he said. "What happened back at that warehouse-"

"Don't."

John growled silently and sat upright.

"You said I need to talk, and you're right, you git, now shut up and let me!"

John became aware of the volume of his voice, and he looked around. Sherlock waited, defeated for the moment. John began again more gently.

"What happened back at that warehouse was...inconceivable. Even if you seem like you've gotten over it, though I have no idea how, I haven't. I really haven't, and I really just need to know if you're ok."

Sherlock simply watched him, his hands gripping the arms of the seat just slightly. He looked away, toward the window again, before he spoke, quietly.

"I've told you," he said. "I don't know if I'm ok. Leave it alone."

John pursed his lips and sat back, crossing his legs. He looked down. Neither of them looked at each other or exchanged any words for a long time then, Sherlock gazing out the window pensively, in defiant silence, while John simply waited for something to happen. He chewed his lip.

"What happened at the flat the other day?" John asked suddenly. The tension was broken. Sherlock looked at him inquisitively.

"What?"

"At the flat. On the couch. You...did something."

Sherlock fell silent again, looking down, then back up at John.

"I just want to know," John said with a smile. He leaned in and put a hand on Sherlock's. "It's ok, you know. It's fine. Just...took me off guard."

Sherlock swallowed slowly, licking his lips before speaking.

"I just..." he said. "...I wanted to know what...it felt like."

John looked at Sherlock curiously.

"What _what_ felt like, Sherlock?" He was putting a theory together, piecing the bits together in his head, but he needed Sherlock's response to solidify it. John Watson was not an idiot. He knew that his flat mate wouldn't just kiss him out of nowhere. Especially not after...

"I wanted to..." Sherlock said with difficulty. He looked away from John and leaned on his knees, his hands folded in front of him. "I...feel cheated."

John leaned close to Sherlock, their faces only inches from each other. They spoke low.

"Cheated?"

Sherlock nodded. He was staring intently at his hands.

"I'd been taught that touch was supposed to be something...tender and meaningful, who knows why," Sherlock began. His tone was a deadpan, but only John could hear the hurt that was concealed. "That to be touched, for some indiscernible reason, should mean that someone cared for you. Some important human ritual that should not go to waste. But then..."

Sherlock cleared his throat briefly.

"Then I learned, through experience, that touching was simply another form of harsher contact. That people abuse through touch. That people hurt through touch. That people use it as a tool for branding someone with their own hatred, inflicting their own carelessness, rather than conveying such comforting and sensitive notions as love or friendship. Obvious."

John gave a sad look to his friend and swallowed.

"But still," Sherlock said, a grimace on his face. "There was still...a foolish thought I had. A hope, a bloody hope for being wrong, just for once...but I'm never wrong."

He shook his head.

"The fly in the ointment..." he muttered. He rubbed his face with both hands and sighed.

John cocked his head slightly and put a hand on Sherlock's shoulder.

"So...you wanted to know what it felt like to...be touched lovingly?" he said almost sheepishly. Sherlock looked at him from between his fingers.

"I wanted to..." he said, searching John's face with deductive eyes. John leaned back and crossed his arms again, waiting for his response. Sherlock sighed.

"I wanted to know what it felt like to be touched with affection, yes," he said with the same tone as if he had said he had contracted malaria. John cocked his head in thought. Sherlock took his hands away from his face then and looked at him, as if to say that he should know what he meant. John huffed.

"You're doing the face," he said with a smirk. Sherlock cocked a sarcastic eyebrow. John shook his head.

"You're all sorts of jumbled," he said with a bitter chuckle. "Never thought I'd hear you say anything as...well, heart warming, I guess."

Sherlock looked almost hurt as he straightened and turned to the look out the window again.

"Yes," he said quietly. John looked concerned, immediately guilty.

"Hey, hey," he said gently. "It's completely alright. Really." Sherlock glanced at him.

"Doesn't matter," he said. "I apologize if it caused you an discomfort." John sighed. Just when he thought Sherlock was opening up, getting somewhere, he shut himself up again. John ran a hand over his head.

"Well, it's really alright," he said again. He watched Sherlock, waiting to see if there was anything else to pass through his pale lips. There wasn't. John sat back and closed his eyes.

"Think I'll sleep for a while, then."

"Mm."

"Wake me if I'm not already up when we get there."

And as John drifted into welcome but pensive sleep, he could have sworn he felt Sherlock's hand graze his for but a moment, as if to say "thank you," before he plummeted into the depths of his dreamscape.


	7. Chapter 7

NOTE: Dimwit Cynic has John use the nickname "'Lock" for Sherlock in the story "Measured in Feet," which is awesome, by the way. I am rather fond of how the nickname personalizes John and Sherlock's relationship, and I prefer it to "Sher" or "Sherly," so know that I sort of pawned it off from that. I'm sure more people have used the nickname, but I'm sort of using this as shameless advertising for DC as well...I regret nothing.

Apologies for the long wait. Be warned: slightly angsty, throwing up, some more silly fluff, and texts from Mycroft.

* * *

><p><em>Emblazoned<em>

CHAPTER SEVEN

The flight from London to Dublin was only about an hour and a half, and John intended on using every minute of that hour and a half to make up for the recent loss of sleep he'd encountered since the incident. He snoozed comfortably on the plane, the soft rumble of the jet engines and the cozy comfort of the first class seating wooed him to dreamless slumber, and Sherlock watched as he snored lightly, his mouth slightly agape.

Sherlock had watched John sleep on more than one occasion, mostly for experiments or boredom or just simply because he himself could not sleep. Now he watched, however, because at any moment, he felt like John would wake up and want to "talk" again. He needed to be prepared for this.

Sherlock did not want to talk. He never did. But talking about this was a little more than undesirable. He sat back in his chair, legs crossed, hands steepled, his fingertips grazing his lips.

He was raped.

Every time he thought about it, something deep within him stirred, some ancient crevice cracked a little more, some abyssal canyon rumbled in the deep. He was sitting on a plane, going to Ireland in the wake of this immense tragedy. He was utterly, chaotically confused. The tempest brewing within his otherwise composed sense of thought was so unmanageable that he truly feared for his life. He'd tried the cocaine, and not only did it not help, but it caused John to become even more upset.

John.

God, perhaps worse than being the victim was having to watch. He shuddered visibly at the thought. His friend, best friend, only friend in the world had seen him...he couldn't even think about it. He closed his eyes...

...and every time he did, he could see the smiling, sinister faces, the rough hands bruising his skin, the tongues like fire. He could feel the ache in his body, the taste of salty, tender flesh, the heat of the sour, sticky fluid releasing in his mouth, making him choke, shuddering as it filled his insides, dripping, mingling with the blood between his legs, making him cringe, making him...

He stood abruptly and walked with as much composure as possible to the tiny bathroom at the end of the row, and once he finally made it inside, he curled over the toilet and vomited repeatedly.

Shaking, he pressed his forehead against his arm and tried to steady his breathing, sniffling and blinking away his tears. His stomach churned. The world spun rapidly. He groaned and dry heaved, having nothing left in him to upturn. A knock came to the door.

"Everything alright sir?"

Sherlock cleared his throat.

"Fine," he said, taking a breath. "Just...air sickness."

"Well if there's anything you need, let us know."

"Thank you."

Sherlock sighed heavily and sat, his back pressed to the wall. He drew his knees up and rested his head against them, his eyes closed tightly.

No one could make this go away, he knew. No one could stop this. All he needed was to know why it happened. Why did they do this? What motive, what reason did they have to be so cruel?

He'd been abused and bullied before in his life, no doubt, but at least he understood as to why they chose to pick at him, whether it was because they were jealous of his intelligence or just thought he was a freak. The point was that there was a reason. But here...here there was nothing.

He was raped.

"God..." he breathed, feeling as though he may be sick again. He rocked slowly back and forth, pushing down the sickness and the confusion, desperately trying to suppress his mental wreckage. His phone buzzed, and he grumbled.

_SMS: I know you're on the plane right now, but call me when you get there. -Mycroft Holmes_

Sherlock stared for a moment at the tiny screen before typing up his message with trembling fingers.

_SMS: Why do you want to know? -S_

_SMS: Sherlock, you can't use your phone on an aeroplane. -Mycroft Holmes_

_SMS: Piss off. -S_

_SMS: Just don't forget to call me. -Mycroft Holmes_

Sherlock stood and sighed heavily.

_SMS: Okay. -S_

_SMS: Everything alright so far? -Mycroft Holmes_

_SMS: Fine. -S_

_SMS: How are you holding up? -Mycroft Holmes_

He groaned, running a hand through his hair.

_SMS: Absolutely fine. -S_

_SMS: Okay...be safe. Don't forget to call. Please. -Mycroft Holmes_

He opened the door, shoving the phone back into his pocket, and returned to his seat. John was bleary eyed, smiling when he saw him sit down again.

"Everything alright?" he asked. Sherlock nodded.

"Sleep well?" he asked distractedly. John stretched.

"Yes actually," he said happily. "Very well. You know, I could get used to flying first class. Really nice."

Sherlock shrugged and sighed deeply, running his hands over his face. John cocked his head.

"You sure you're ok? You look a little...yellow."

Sherlock cleared his throat and regarded John with cautious eyes.

"Fine," he said decisively. John grunted and shrugged, checking his watch.

"Should be there pretty soon," he said. "Only about twenty more minu-"

"John."

John looked up inquisitively to see Sherlock gripping his knees, eyes narrowed.

"Yes...?" John answered cautiously. "You ok?"

"I think I'm going to vomit."

"Oh...well...uh...here."

John reached under his seat to find a paper bag, with the air line's logo printed neatly on the white surface, and gave it to his friend, who took it with a shaking hand.

"Didn't know you got air sickness," John said as Sherlock clenched the bag, now pressed against his face, and heaved. Nothing came of it, and it made Sherlock feel dizzy. He really needed to eat more.

"I...don't..." he managed to say between gags. John nodded as Sherlock closed his eyes tightly and doubled over, hugging his knees and gripping the empty bag.

"Something you ate then, maybe?"

"I haven't eaten since the night we went to Angelo's."

"What about the rice and noodles the other night?"

Sherlock shook his head and moaned, dry-heaving again and pressing his forehead to his knees.

"But Angelo's was a few days ago, 'Lock."

Sherlock sighed and groaned.

"Yes. I know. And don't call me that."

John smiled and pat Sherlock's slightly damp curls.

"Just take it easy," he said. "And promise me you'll eat regularly on this trip, alright?" Sherlock waved his hand and muttered a "fine, fine."

The rest of the flight was spent by John cooing to his friend, patting his back and ruffling his hair while the world's only consulting detective quivered and moaned, not having the heart to have that "talk" again, even if this time he really needed to.

* * *

><p>They had checked into the castle of a building upon their arrival-one Mount Juliet Hotel, just about an hour outside of Dublin in Kilkenny-and once they settled in, John flopping on the bed and bouncing happily, Sherlock had almost hurriedly walked through the patio doors and stood outside, gripping the wooden handrail.<p>

There was snow, melting away for the time being, but no doubt to return soon. The wind rushed about him, his coat billowing and his scarf loosely lapping at his neck and face. His white, marble hands clung to the rail, gazing down.

John appeared behind him, watching. He stood stark still, his face flushed with wind chill and his lips pressed firmly together. His dark curls almost violently contrasted with the white of his skin, and his eyes were bright, strikingly sharp blue-green marbles, flicking about, dazedly grazing over the snowy landscape. John stood and walked over to him, suddenly having an almost overwhelming urge to wrap his arms around his waist. He did not, merely standing slightly behind him in the doorway.

"It's breathtaking," he said. Sherlock almost started, taking a sharp breath in and seeming to be shaken from his thoughts.

"Yes," he said finally, blinking away some stray flakes of snow that clung to his eyelashes. He turned to John, licking his lips.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly, leaning against the wood, his back to the landscape. John cocked his head, hugging his arms against the cold.

"What for?"

"For kissing you, at the flat. It was foolish and uncharacteristic of me, and I apologize."

John was a bit taken aback, arching his eyebrows.

"Well, you're just out with it then..." he said humourously. Sherlock's lips parted slightly, then looked away, downcast. John sighed.

"It's alright, I told you on the plane," he said, smiling. Sherlock looked up at him, piercing John with a starlit gaze. John's smile faded into a look of wonder. Sherlock's eyes nearly hypnotized him; he stood, captivated, held tight by Sherlock's glassy pools of silvery turquoise.

Standing there in the cold, in front of the slightly teetering frame of his flat mate and the marvelous behemoth of a landscape spread behind him, John's heart felt a heavy, sharp tug, not unlike the one he had felt on the couch when Sherlock had kissed him. He was drawn to him, yearned for him, wanted so desperately to make his pain go away that it wracked him with foreign feeling. Before his mind knew, his heart did, and he eventually found himself lost in a spiral of his own emotion. But he knew. Finally, he knew.

"I love you."

John had said it without thinking. The words slipped from his mouth and dribbled down his chin like sweet juice from a plump fruit. As soon as he felt the nectar of those words graze past his lips, he licked them unconsciously, hoping to pull the words back in, but it was too late.

They were already in the air, dancing in front of them like wisps of cloud. And John was horrified.

"Wh..." Sherlock said quietly, eyes wide. "What...?"

John cleared his throat and looked down.

"Sorry, uh..." he began. "Nothing. It's nothing. I um...I was just thinking of something else..."

Sherlock stood there, eyes narrow, calculating, perplexed. John looked sheepishly up at him, preparing himself inwardly for the rejection, the condemnation, the lengthy explanation as to why the idea was so absurd...

...but before he knew it, the detective had pulled him into an embrace, and then subsequently kissed him full on the mouth.

Sherlock's phone buzzed on the dresser.

_SMS: Have you arrived yet? I told you to call me you idiot. -M_

But how was the elder Holmes to know that his little brother was otherwise occupied?

* * *

><p>Hooray for cliff hangers! :)<p> 


	8. Chapter 8

_Emblazoned_

CHAPTER EIGHT

_Assess situation:_

_Basis: physical contact on an intimate level._

_Analysis: establish justifiable means for uncharacteristic behaviour_

_Possibility one: Trauma_

_Possibility two: Primal instinct/carnal desire_

_Possibility thr - Dear God John is so attractive and it feels so good to have his lips on mine and he tastes like mangos and oh my his tongue is so soft and his hands are in my hair and goodness he's so strong but he's so gentle and he smells so delicious and he's so warm and Christ I'm getting aroused but this feels so good oh John don't stop please I want you to -_

"Ah - "

Sherlock broke the kiss and stared at John with wild eyes. They had somehow made it to the bed and John was on top of him, his lips wet and slightly swollen and his face flushed.

"S-Sorry," John stammered, his eyes bewildered. "I...um..."

Sherlock blinked, perhaps to regain focus. John was straddling him, the doctor's hands pressed against his pectorals. Sherlock's arms were flung above his head, his black buttoned shirt wrinkled and mangled, his dark hair messed, and his legs haphazardly entangled with the stout doctor's.

"Well," he said, trying to remain as stoic as possible. "This is...new."

John chuckled nervously. Neither of them moved. They simply stared into each other's eyes, astonished and curious. It was John who spoke first.

"We shouldn't be doing this."

Sherlock blinked. He licked his lips, a tingling sensation buzzing on his tongue as he swiped over hints a traces of John's saliva, and cleared his throat.

"We shouldn't," John said again, and this time he made an effort to get off of his flat mate, but Sherlock grasped his arm.

"Wait," he said, low and breathy. John looked back at him unsurely.

"Sherlock...this isn't...we're not..." John was frustrated that he couldn't find the words. The look in the detective's eyes was so forlornly stricken with desire that John came dangerously close to forgetting all moral standards and just proceeding with making love to the beautiful, absolutely gorgeous man pinned beneath him, but he refused. He sighed.

"We can't do this," he said decisively, and albeit rather regrettably.

"Why?" Sherlock asked, eyebrows arched. John was slightly surprised. "I don't know what's so...haltingly alarming about it."

"Sherlock...you don't have to be a genius to know that this will...things will end up...leading to..."

John shook his head. _I'm bloody tongue-tied. Jesus..._

Sherlock said nothing, and his grip loosened just slightly on John's arm. Still, John did not move.

"You don't want to do this," Sherlock announced. John wasn't sure if he could detect a form of sadness in his voice, but he glazed over the fact.

"Sherlock, I just don't think you're in your right mind," John said after what seemed like long deliberation. Sherlock propped himself up on his elbows, and John took this as a sign to dismount him. He sat on the side of the bed, not facing Sherlock.

"Look," John began, smoothing out his jeans. "Like we've been saying. You're not yourself, Sherlock. You've got to know that you wouldn't be doing this...that _we_ wouldn't be doing this on any other basis." He heard Sherlock sit up, and after a beat, he continued.

"You said you feel cheated, and it's perfectly normal to feel that way. Really. And it's not that I don't want to be there for you, because you know I do, 'Lock. But doing this stuff...all this physical attention...Sherlock I think you're trying to...sort of...reclaim what you've lost, and since I'm the closest thing you've got to...well...I think you might be-"

"I'm not using you, John."

The remark was harsh, and Sherlock's voice dripped only slightly with hurt. John swallowed visibly.

"I know, 'Lock," he said quietly. "I'm just saying, you might not be...aware of what you're doing."

"I'm perfectly aware of what I'm doing."

John sighed.

"Are you though?" he asked, turning so that he faced Sherlock, who was sitting on the bed with his knees drawn up to his chest. He hung his head low, and his dark curls hid his eyes. He said nothing.

John sighed and rubbed his temples. Sherlock, he was convinced, was in fact _not_ aware of what he was doing at all. Kissing John? And more than once? And not just kissing him, no, _snogging_ with him. Repeatedly. Viciously. The hunger for the contact was unlike Sherlock entirely, and John was well aware. He knew, perhaps since the first time it happened, that Sherlock's confusion and lack of control over the situation was the only explanation. He was trying to gain control over his physical and mental state. He was trying to...reconduct the experiment. Sherlock was never, ever caught off guard. He'd had no experience in physical intimacy, and John knew that the minute those men grabbed him, Sherlock would be changed, maybe irreparably.

John figured that Sherlock was trying to use him as a way to go back and "study" the aspects of this physical contact his way. There was no force with John, no rush, no hurt. And by God, there never would be. If Sherlock was afraid, John would snog the fear right out of him, but John knew that this wasn't the way to go into this. He'd just proffessed his love to this man, for Christ's sake, without thinking of how it may only further his confusion and his loss. John closed his eyes and took a breath.

"Sherlock," he said after a long silence. "Say it."

Sherlock looked up at him inquisitively.

"What?"

"I think you should say it."

"John I don't - "

"Say that you were raped."

The words cut sharply through the air and Sherlock swallowed hard, unmoving, staring at John with a blank expression. His eyes, however, were alight with sharp horrification. John nodded.

"Just say it," he said quietly. "Trust me."

Sherlock opened his mouth to protest, but John gave him a tense look.

"No, Sherlock," he said sternly. He turned to face him full on, sitting cross-legged on the bed. "This will help, I promise. Say it."

Sherlock looked down, eyes searching and calculating with practiced precision. John put a hand on his leg, ever so gently.

"Take your time," he said. His voice was soft, comforting, and he tried very hard not to tremble. It had taken a lot for _him_ to say it; he could only imagine what it would take for Sherlock to -

"I was raped."

Sherlock's voice was brittle, small, hardly a very Sherlock voice at all. There was no confidence, no harshness, no depth. It was almost frightening. John stood his ground, knowing that this needed to be done.

"Good," he said quietly, stroking gently up and down his leg. "Keep telling me. Tell me what you felt like."

Christ, he sounded like his therapist. But Sherlock was worth an identity crisis every now and then. Sherlock was worth everything.

There was a long, cold silence, and John remembered in the back of his mind that they had left the balcony door open, the cold winter air flowing into the hotel room shamelessly. He shuddered lightly, but did not move, did not falter from his friend's side.

"It..." Sherlock began, his voice coarse and quiet. He was hiding his head in his knees, unable to lift it to face John's careful, tender eyes.

"It was...frightening...terrifying..."

John swallowed and gripped his friend's leg.

"Can you tell me why, Sherlock?"

"Because...I've never...I've never even thought about...well I'd thought about doing...things like that...but I wasn't...I wasn't ready. God, I wasn't ready. I didn't know what was going on. I was so afraid. I was terrified. I couldn't think. I couldn't think at all. I can always think. I couldn't...nothing was clear. Everything was happening so fast and I couldn't move and I couldn't breathe and then they kept touching me and hurting me and my mind wasn't working at all and I couldn't protect myself and I kept trying to make it stop...God, just to make it stop...but they kept coming at me and I couldn't...John I couldn't...I didn't know what to do...I don't...I don't know...what..."

Sherlock spoke quickly; he began to tremble and his voice was shaking. John came in close to him, putting an arm around his shuddering shoulders.

"It's alright...it's ok..." he cooed tenderly, rubbing his arm. Sherlock made a noise that John assumed was a choked sob.

"John," he said weakly. "I just need...I need...I need to know why. Why, John? Why did this happen? What logical explanation is there to this? I've tried...I cant figure it out, John. And I'm so afraid. I don't know, John. I need to know why. Why?"

Sherlock looked up at John then, his face flushed and his eyes wet with crystal tears. John's heart leapt into his throat.

"I don't know, Sherlock," he said quietly, bringing his hand up to Sherlock's face. He stroked his damp cheek and with his thumb he wiped away his tears. "But you're safe now. You're safe."

Sherlock sniffed and took a breath, closing his eyes. He breathed deeply, calming himself. He still shuddered with each breath, but after a moment, he opened his eyes again and stared up at John with a curious, glossy gaze.

"Why did you say that?" he asked, his voice returning to normal. John sighed, admittedly in relief, that Sherlock was returning to himself again. It was difficult and even a little unnerving to try to comfort someone who has never really...asked for it before. Or appeared to need it. John gripped his friend's arm.

"Said what?" he asked, using his other hand to carefully brush Sherlock's curls from his eyes.

"That you loved me."

John's breath caught for a moment in his throat before he cleared it and looked down.

"I...don't really know, Sherlock," he said. Did he really not know? Or was he afraid to tell that he did?

"That's not true."

Sherlock was as sharp as ever. The remark was harsh.

"Tell me the truth John."

Gentler, now. A twinge of guilt.

"Please."

Hurt. There was the hurt. John sighed and looked into Sherlock's hazy eyes.

"I just...said it...like it just came out of my mouth," John said honestly. He searched Sherlock's face for any kind of reaction before he continued.

"I guess I've known for a while now, but never really admitted it to myself. Standing there on the balcony...thinking about all the things that have happened...Sherlock I...well I realized that there's no way that I _can't_ love you. So I guess since there's no way that I can't, then I must, right?"

The words sounded odd, and Sherlock smirked.

"Deductive reasoning," he said. "Excellent, John. You improve each day."

John scoffed humourously.

"Thanks, Mr. Miyagi," he said with a goofy smile and a wink.

Sherlock smiled. The pop-culture reference may have gone over his head, but John knew that the smile was genuine.

"You're so bizarre," Sherlock said. John chuckled.

"Right. _I'm_ the bizarre one, Sir Head in the Fridge."

Sherlock frowned, but it didn't hold for long...

...John kissed it off his lips.

* * *

><p>Mycroft Holmes was not a patient man. He was also not a very nice man, all things considered. He was a man of principle, discipline, order. He was not one for petty arguments, idle chatter, emotional break downs. He was a man of fine wine, important phone calls, fireplaces, wing-backed chairs, long meetings, sleepless nights, and the occasional splurge on one too many desserts. Other than those things, there was very little that Mycroft Holmes chose to care about.<p>

Mycroft Holmes, however, could be a very, very good big brother when he tried. Despite the fact that he hardly wished to be involved with his younger sibling's chaotic life, he had always looked after him, always made sure that he was taken care of, always made it so that no matter what, he was there to fix it. Picking up his drunken brother in alleyways, locking him in his bedroom for days so that he could get off the heroin or cocaine, paying his bills when he was just too occupied to remember, sending him cases just to keep him sane, buying him birthday presents when he knew his parents had forgotten again...

Sherlock may feign hatred and rebellion, may condemn his name, his life, his weight problems, his arrogance, but Mycroft silently took the abuse. He knew Sherlock was too damn stubborn to ever admit that he needed Mycroft, and Mycroft was too haughty to allow himself to inform Sherlock just how much he truly cared. Advantageous or not, he did.

But Mycroft Holmes could not, for any amount of cake or intelligence he possessed, figure out how to fix his little brother in this particular situation.

He sat in front of the fire at the Diogenes club, hands folded, a glass of iced Scotch on the coaster next to him. The paper sat in his lap. Not a single mention of his brother or the Merchants was to be put in the papers. He had made sure of it. He'd threatened nearly every paper in town who had caught wind of the story that if they even breathed the name Holmes, he'd have them...taken care of.

His brother was in Ireland. With John. Safe. For now.

Mycroft sighed.

How long would he be safe? And how could he keep him safe?

The Merchants were on the move, he knew, but he had no idea where. They moved underground, under the radar, away from the his prying eye, and he could only guess what they were up to next. Sure, Mycroft had other things to worry about, like the terrorist attacks in Libya or the proposed trade treaty with Japan, but he could not think of anything else but his brother. His damned brother.

His phone buzzed on the side table.

_SMS: Arrived a few hours ago. Didn't have time to call. All fine. -SH_

He stared at the text message. His fingers flew over the tiny buttons.

_SMS: What do you mean you didn't have time? -Mycroft Holmes_

_SMS: Bugger off. I'm busy. -SH_

_SMS: How long are you staying? A week? -Mycroft Holmes_

_SMS: Yes. -SH_

_SMS: Alright. How's John? Do you two have enough money? -Mycroft Holmes_

_SMS: Are you at the dentist? You're texting an awful lot. I'm supposed to be on holiday. -SH_

_SMS: Sherlock... -Mycroft Holmes_

_SMS: Mycroft. -SH_

Mycroft sighed irritably.

_SMS: Call me if you need anything. -Mycroft Holmes_

_SMS: I won't. -SH_

_SMS: You're a child. -Mycroft Holmes_

_SMS: You're jealous. xx -SH_

The elder let out a short breath of annoyance through his nose and rubbed his face. Sherlock seemed to be fine, to say the least, but he knew. He knew that this wasn't over. He'd heard about the incident nearly minutes after it happened, and all he could think was _"how in God's name could I let this happen?"_

"Christ..."

He sipped his Scotch and ruminated deeply over the situation at hand. He had ways of making sure that the Merchants never set a finger on a stupid little curl on his stupid little brother's head ever again, but if he could only locate where the hell they'd gone off to. Could they have known that Sherlock and John were going to Ireland? When had they decided?

His phone buzzed again. Anthea. He grabbed the small black rectangle and his eyes lit up.

_SMS: Located Edgar Merchant. -A_

Mycroft's heart jumped to his throat. He shifted.

_SMS: Call me in ten minutes with the details. I'll be on my way. -Mycroft Holmes_

Grabbing his umbrella, he nearly leapt from his chair and strode out of the club towards the black Mercedes, leaving the fire roaring and the glass of Scotch to sweat agitatedly on the table.


	9. Chapter 9

NOTE: It's nearly 1am and I've uploaded this because I'd promised that I would upload it this week and if I didn't do it now then I'd never do it. So here it is. And it's pretty great. Sorry this one took so long. Nevertheless, I shall deliver. Be warned, there's sex. Though by now you should probably assume that the chapters will contain NSFW content...anyway. Enjoy.

* * *

><p><em>Emblazoned<em>

CHAPTER NINE

It was tantalizing, the feeling of Sherlock's milky white skin. So supple, tender, soft. It made John's fingertips tingle as he let the tentative digits glide down Sherlock's torso, his shirt unbuttoned and open. Sherlock, despite the fact that his eyelids were fluttering with pleasure, lips parted for a sigh, watched very intently. His eyes were fixed on John, John's hands, John's lips, John's movements. John would have to be gentle, so very gentle, if he was to continue with the situation at hand.

John made tiny trails of kisses up and down Sherlock's chest and collar bone, and he buried his face in Sherlock's neck while he caressed his sides, rough thumbs grazing and stroking his ribs. Sherlock shivered. John kissed only a little roughly at his neck, licking tenderly and sucking at the delicate skin. Sherlock would bruise easily, he knew, and he was careful not to suck too hard - though the thought of giving the World's Only Consulting Detective his first hickey made bad, bad thoughts trickle into John Watson's mind.

Things carried on like this for a bit longer, John's hands and fingers spraying across the barren, sheer landscape of Sherlock's chest and belly, his lips pressing to his skin in all areas, his tongue merely tasting the surface. John would not go on unless he was absolutely certain that Sherlock would permit it. He didn't want to end up like he was that afternoon at the flat, confused and quite frankly disappointed.

John glanced over at the open door to the balcony. Wind swept inside, swirled around, tickled their bodies. John smiled against Sherlock's skin.

"Are you ok?" he whispered hotly.

"Yes," Sherlock breathed. John leaned up then for a moment and looked down at the detective. His eyes were wild again, glowing with some foreign desire that didn't have a name, shining luminously with a starry blue-green, a combination of colour and light that John had never seen before. It was like looking at a tiny galaxy, swirling and shifting and begging for him, beckoning for him. John's heart lurched, and he crushed his mouth into the detective's, wrapping his arms around the thin body and pressing it closer to himself.

Sherlock seemed slightly surprised at the sudden surge of contact, but he quickly reciprocated. John let a small moan slip from between their conjoined lips as he broke the threshold and his tongue entered the other man's mouth.

It took him a moment to realize that Sherlock's hands were dancing around him, trying desperately to remove his coat. John aided him, briefly breaking the kiss, and, straddling him once more, John ripped off his coat and jumper, leaving nothing but a thin white t-shirt as a barrier between his flesh and Sherlock's. Sherlock didn't want to wait; he brought his hands up and pressed them to John's chest, kneading his fingers into the fabric, a look of fascination and desire painted on his porcelain face, along with a rather furious blush. He flicked his eyes up at John's, as if to ask permission, but John was way ahead of him, and removed his shirt in a swift motion.

The two stayed themselves for a moment, John perched on top of Sherlock, shirtless and panting and heavily weighted with anticipation, and Sherlock, pinned beneath the doctor, chest bared, heaving, nearly trembling with sensation.

John raked his hands down Sherlock's torso, then bent to hungrily kiss and nip at his flesh, his tongue tracing circles of longing down his skin. Sherlock's breath hitched just slightly when John reached the spot below his naval, where tender flesh and a dusting of hair gave way to deeper intentions. John shot a look up to Sherlock, and Sherlock licked his lips, as if unsure.

"We don't have to," John breathed, resting his hands on the man's hips. "We don't have to do anything." But Sherlock gripped John's wrists then, and squeezed encouragingly.

"Do it," Sherlock said fiercely. "I need this."

John had never heard him sound so desperate, and with a fiery drive, he began to undo Sherlock's belt with unsteady hands, unbutton, unzip.

He pulled the jeans down lanky legs, then trailed his hands up and down Sherlock's thighs, ever so tender and gentle, knowing that the further he got, the more he wanted, the slower he'd have to be.

It was painfully erotic.

Sherlock shuddered at his touch, toes curling as John caressed the backs of his thighs. His boxer briefs were snug around him still, the place between his legs straining for attention. John stared for a moment. He suddenly felt nervous, giddy, shaky. His face reddened.

His face was only inches away from Sherlock's cock.

John looked up at Sherlock, whose eyes were closed and lips were parted. He was begging without speaking, moaning without vocalizing. He wanted this. John had a moment of only brief, very brief hesitance, before he pulled the undergarments down and beheld the sight.

He'd seen Sherlock naked before, obviously, but this time it was different. This time, he seemed so in touch, so personal, so...

But he was, wasn't he? This situation, these actions they shared, it was everything in the sense of touch and personal. John quivered with desire, and gently, very, very gently, slid his hands up from Sherlock's thighs to his hips, tracing circles and drawing very near to his pubic hair, which John observed - with a secret smile - did in fact have traces of red in it, after all.

Sherlock suddenly froze and he twitched.

John stopped and looked at him.

"Wait..." Sherlock was saying, his eyes open and alight and frantic. He didn't look afraid, just...out of his element. Again. John slowly moved his hands off his skin, but Sherlock looked up at him and shook his head.

"I don't want you to stop," Sherlock said. His voice was rough, low, baritone, laced with a craving that was new and alien and oh so delicious. John thought that he would be absolutely fine with hearing Sherlock speak that way to him every night before they made love until the dawn broke over the horizon.

"Just tell me what you want me to do," John said. The words sounded silly in the air. Sherlock suddenly looked very confused, very unsure. John waited, smiling tenderly, vaguely aware that his zipper was struggling against his own growing erection.

After what seemed like eternity, Sherlock's body relaxed, and he looked up at John with a warmer, cobalt emerald gaze.

"I want you to love me."

John's heart nearly broke. He was vaguely aware that he made a small noise, one that apparently caused Sherlock's eye brows to arch and the corners of his mouth to upturn just slightly.

_I want you to love me..._

"Then I will love you," John said, his voice small and quiet and breathy and almost shaking with the truth of such a declaration, such a profound set of words that were probably the most true, most full and whole-hearted confessions that he had ever let leave his being.

He was filled with a sense of such completion and purpose. To love Sherlock, to hold him and kiss him and make him his own...that was John Watson.

Something cracked, popped, shattered within the room, the air was split with some unknown sense of breakage, and it was too much to wait.

They had embraced the chasm.

The two stared into each others' gaze eternally before John leaned in and kissed Sherlock ferociously once more, running his hands up and down his sides, down his legs, into his hair, grazing just so over his midsection and his now glaringly apparent erection. Sherlock was nearly writhing beneath him, his hands scraping at John's bare back, combing through his hair, tentatively exploring his flesh in all places on his torso, his nimble fingers dancing gracefully across John's skin.

"Take your clothes off," Sherlock breathed into John's ear. "I want to feel more of you."

John merely grunted in affirmation as he worked off his belt and jeans, shimmying out of them with some difficulty. Finally, he sat upright and began pulling off his boxer shorts while Sherlock watched, fascinated. The look in his eyes was not unlike the one he got when he was really interested in a case. _Really_ interested.

John found that he was blushing, slightly nervous and a little embarrassed, but Sherlock's smile reassured him as he was finally rid of all garments.

"Better?" John asked with a shy smile. Sherlock looked at him, flicking his eyes up and down his frame.

"Absolutely," he said, slightly astonished. John smirked and straddled him once more, and this time, their skin rubbed together in the most electrifying way that it made John shiver and Sherlock gasp.

John wrapped his arms around Sherlock, pressing their skin together, intensity white hot in his veins, and they kissed haphazardly.

John couldn't wait much longer.

He let a hand wander down between Sherlock's legs, and with a short pause, he took hold of Sherlock's member and gave it a single, long stroke.

Sherlock arched his back and gasped, and John froze.

"Too much?" he asked. Sherlock swallowed.

"No...don't stop," he managed. "Please. Don't stop."

John smiled against Sherlock's jawline and nipped playfully as he began to move his hand in long, measurable strokes along Sherlock's length, thoroughly enjoying the sighs and gasps that these actions elicited from the detective. Sherlock's hips then hesitantly began to move with John's motions, and John once again kissed and licked his way down Sherlock's torso, this time not giving a damn whether or not he left a hickey or two along the way.

Now, John Watson had been straight all his life. There was one time, _one_ time in the army when he had been willing to experiment very briefly with his bunk mate, but it was awkward and short lived, and it essentially was joint masturbation. Either way, he had always been on the receiving end of things, which was all fine, but in this case, he was a little inexperienced, and he wasn't sure what to expect. Ironically, he found himself very much wanting to find out.

In short, John Watson had never given a blow job. And he was about to.

With a quick glance to Sherlock, who was lost somewhere in the sensations of John's hands and lips and tongue, John licked his lips and gripped Sherlock's length, and with a final, mental wave good bye to all things heterosexual about him, he opened his mouth and engulfed Sherlock entirely.

And Sherlock made a sound.

It was singularly the most amazing, sexually appealing, electrically arousing, and otherwise inhumanly beautiful sound John had ever heard. He couldn't even classify it as a moan or a gasp or even a shriek. It was just a sound. A sound that erupted from within Sherlock's depths, spilling out from his mouth and into the room, ringing in John's ears. It was incredible, and John in turn responded with a short moan and a long suck. Sherlock gripped the blanket and made another sound, not unlike the previous one, pushing his hips up to meet John's mouth.

With each suck and swirl of the tongue, John pulled more and more sounds from Sherlock's inner being, raw and guttural and utterly gorgeous, and John found himself enjoying the opposite end of the spectrum, perhaps more so than he enjoyed the previous side.

Sherlock gripped John's shoulders, white knuckled and heaving.

"John...God John..."

He was getting close already, and John knew that he should probably stop. Then again, he didn't want to overwhelm the detective.

On that note, it was a little surprising to John that Sherlock was so eager to be doing all this at all. All experience he had had thus far had been wretched, terribly, terribly wretched, and so the fact that Sherlock was not only reciprocating, but _initiating_ made John rather excited, but admittedly, a little confused.

John chose not to think about that, stowing the ideas away for a while and continued sucking on Sherlock's now throbbing erection. Sherlock was moaning, grunting, crying out rather loudly, and his nails were digging into John's back. John gave two or three more long sucks, swirling his tongue generously around for good measure, and then slid his mouth off of Sherlock's length, the bitter taste of Sherlock's pre-cum tingling on his tongue.

"Good?" John asked, licking his lips. Sherlock looked down at him, his eyes frantic with desire.

"Why did you stop?" he rasped. "It was...so...so good..."

John chuckled and placed his hands on either of Sherlock's inner thighs.

"Did you want more?" he asked. "Did you want to go farther?"

Sherlock opened his mouth, as if to respond, but something stopped him, and he just stared with wild fascination at John, mouth slightly agape. John mindlessly trailed his nails up and down Sherlock's inner thighs, waiting.

"Farther..." Sherlock finally breathed, uncertainty splashing briefly across his face. John planted tender kisses along Sherlock's abdomen.

"We don't have to do anything," he said between pecks. "We can stop here. We can keep going. Just tell me what you want."

Sherlock curled his toes and said in a very, very small voice.

"I want you."

John looked up at him and smiled.

"And you have me," he said seductively - dear God, was he really being seductive? - as he gently dragged his nails down Sherlock's sides. Sherlock sighed and tilted his head back, shivering.

John was a bit uncertain himself - not only had he never done anything like this before, he didn't know if Sherlock was ready, even if he seemed like it. But, he figured, if something wasn't good, Sherlock would let him know, and so he proceeded, with newfound fervor, to further explore Sherlock's intimate areas.

He figured that having sex with another man couldn't be far from having sex with a woman in terms of preparation. However, the minor set back was the lack of proper lubrication, which made John hinge his jaw in and lick his bottom lip in thought. While he mulled over the possibilities of how to further their endeavour, he leaned over and sucked at the skin on Sherlock's ribs, licking and nipping gently, knowing full well that he'd be creating a rather nicely sized hickey on the pale flesh while he fondled Sherlock's desperate erection.

"John..." Sherlock said with slight frustration and an eager lift of his hips. John sighed against Sherlock's moistened skin and decided to go all in. What's the worst that could happen? This was all brand new, exciting, different, and as much as all his moral sirens were sounding and as much as he was confusing himself with this odd new Sherlock that now lay sprawled and - he thought he'd never see the day - _horny_ on the bed underneath him, he knew there was no turning back. Something he was thankful for, admittedly.

He thoroughly sucked on his middle finger, some what mimicking the motions he had applied to Sherlock not moments ago, and just when the detective grunted in anticipation, he trailed his wet finger down and pressed it firmly against Sherlock's entrance, just barely daring to break the threshold.

Immediately, Sherlock flinched and he gripped the duvet, rigid. John looked at Sherlock, eyes fixed on him, waiting.

"Tell me if it's no good," he said. Sherlock swallowed, closed his eyes, breathed deeply, and relaxed.

"I'm ready," he said. And John slowly slid his finger inside.

Sherlock trembled, and John ignored the fact that Sherlock was gripping his arm a little too tightly, but he didn't really give any indication of pain or discomfort, and so John proceeded to prep him further.

John really didn't have any idea as to what extent of preparation he'd have to execute, but after Sherlock's trembling began to subside and his breath became more even, John retracted his fingers - he had added another for good measure - and slid on top of the detective once more, his own erection poised between his legs.

His tip pressed gently against Sherlock, much like his fingers had, and Sherlock opened his eyes. He stared hard at John, and John devoured the sight before him.

Sherlock's face was flushed, his lips were wet and full and his hair was incredibly messy. His eyes were stark and striking and nearly aglow, the look on his face was that of pleasure and blushing nervousness that made John all the more excited and intrigued. Sherlock was livid with sensation, and with each progression of action he was becoming more and more...starstruck.

John pushed himself slowly into Sherlock, just so that his tip was barely inside.

"John!" Sherlock suddenly yelped. John froze.

"It's ok," he said immediately, tender and gentle yet raggedly deep and throaty. "Take it easy."

Sherlock swallowed hard, and gripped the duvet again, clenching the wrinkled fabric in his fists as his body went tense.

"John...I..." he began, eyes suddenly darting every which way. "I don't know..."

"Do you want to stop?"

"No...no I just..."

John sighed and smiled, and he reached over to brush the hair from Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock looked at him.

"I won't hurt you," he said gently. "You're safe with me."

Sherlock nodded once, slowly, and John pressed his lips into Sherlock's as he pressed himself close and entered him, merging their bodies into a being that could only be described in one recurring word that danced across John Watson's mind.

_Beautiful..._

* * *

><p>"And you're absolutely clear on this?" Mycroft said into his phone as he sped along in the black Mercedes. He was speaking to one silver-haired detective inspector.<p>

"Of course," Lestrade replied. "If you found him there, then we'll get right on it."

Mycroft nodded. Greg Lestrade was a good man. He'd taken care of his brother almost as much as Mycroft had himself, and he was one of the few people his brother was involved with that was actually trustworthy. Mycroft sighed.

"Keep in touch with your progress," he said. "I'm meeting the source of the information as we speak, but the...leg work will have to be done by you and your team."

"Absolutely, Mr. Holmes."

There was a beat.

"What's the...condition of my brother?" Mycroft asked. Lestrade cleared his throat.

"He seemed fine the last time I saw him," he said. "But it was a little uncomfortable. I'm sure he'll bounce back though. He's got that way."

"Yes..." Mycroft said, more to himself. He hung up the phone.

Currently, he was on his way to meet up with Anthea, who had arranged for the man who had given the information of the Merchants location to them to meet with Mycroft at an undisclosed governmental facility. Mycroft honestly didn't know - or really care - what to expect. He knew that Lestrade would have half the Yard drop everything to pursue this case, if not for the sake of Sherlock, than for the wrath of his elder brother and the horrid reign of fire he could unleash.

Mycroft had given up on trying to contact his brother. He also didn't care much to speak with him since, all things considered, Sherlock probably expected him to fix everything as it was. Sherlock, no matter how old or how haughty he got, always had the uncanny ability to have complete trust in the fact that his brother would some how make everything turn out fine. And Mycroft really, really tried his best to live up to that expectation.

The elder stepped out of the car and into the building with long strides and a quick pace, perhaps seeming a little too eager, but nevertheless, composed and prim. He opened the door, scanned an ID, gave his name, the works, and finally, he was sitting across from a rather large, angry, and sweaty looking monster.

"Mycroft Holmes," he introduced himself as he folded his hands on the table. It was an interrogation room of sorts, though there was a guard at the door with an M-16 and the hulk of a man before him was neither hand cuffed nor in prison garb.

"I know who you are," the man replied with a thick Russian accent. He sounded as if his remark was meant to be contemptuous, but instead he just sounded tired. "May I go home now?"

"Not until you tell me how you came across this information," Mycroft replied, narrowing his eyes at the man.

_Mid-life...probably around 200 kg...face is pretty banged up, looks like a fist fight...oh, a stab wound on his arm...shallow, not meant for true intent of harm. Rugged, rough hands, probably factory worker. Obviously Russian._

The man seemed to hesitate.

"I've got time to wait on you," Mycroft said, leaning back and crossing his arms. "It's your time that you're jeopardizing."

"I need to know," the man began carefully. "That if I tell you the truth, the consequences will not be...too harsh." Mycroft cocked his head.

"It all depends on what you tell me, mister..." he glanced at the folder that lay a few inches from him on the table. "Mister...Englehurst, is it?"

"Englehurst, yes," the man replied. "Maxim Englehurst."

There was a silence.

"I...I helped...I raped your brother."

Several minutes later, Mycroft sat in the lobby, fuming, teeming with anger, and holding an ice pack, while Maxim Englehurst was questioned by another gentleman. It was probably not decent to have one of the key figures of the British government going around slamming his fists into the jaws of rapists.

Then again, Mycroft Holmes was not a nice man, and he definitely had a mean right hook.


	10. Chapter 10

NOTE: Sorry for the long wait. I was writing the first part of this while listening to Sister Hazel's "All For You," so pardon the fact that some of this is a little cheesy but it's the song's fault, not mine. I swear it.

Curse you, Sister Hazel and your ability to speak the words of John's heart...

That being said, be warned, there's cuddling and fluff and all that jazz, along with, of course, a good amount of subliminal angst. Just to, you know, balance all that fluff...

Yup.

Also, does anyone else have the problem of typing so fast that "John" comes out as "JOhn" more often than not? Yeah.

Alright, I'll shut up now. Enjoy the stuff.

* * *

><p><em>Emblazoned<em>

CHAPTER TEN

It was Sherlock who came first.

John was mildly surprised, since he was very close to his own climax, and he had anticipated being the one to set them off, but Sherlock had tensed upon his quickening speed and had gripped his shoulders, nails digging deep into his flesh. John paused tentatively.

"Are you ok? Did I hurt you?" he managed to grind out, his voice sounding rough and deeper.

"Nn...Not inside me...please John," Sherlock had said, brittle and desperate, worry in his eyes. John felt a heaviness in his chest as he bent to kiss Sherlock's lips tenderly, whispering "ok" as he eased back a bit, suppressing his fast approaching orgasm.

After the brief pause, however, the frenzied thrusts resumed, and Sherlock was moaning and crying out eagerly, clinging to John's rigid body and moving with him in fluid motions. John's hand worked at Sherlock's leaking erection in correspondence with his hips, while Sherlock's legs wrapped tightly around John's waist, their bodies closer than they could ever be. But as John concentrated on figuring out when was best to pull out, Sherlock suddenly cried out desperately in ecstasy, and his hips started bucking wildly.

"Ah! J-John! John!"

John was only momentarily surprised as the detective writhed and trembled beneath him as he climaxed, lost in euphoria, with John soon to follow.

But soon, it was said and done, and now John lay, sticky and sweaty and panting, on top of the twitching detective, with his face buried in the nape of Sherlock's neck, feeling the younger man's body slowly relaxing beneath him. He was indecently happy.

"You alright then?" he breathed after a seemingly long silence. Sherlock nodded once. John could feel their hearts pounding against each other, Sherlock's heavy breaths slowing in his ear, and for just a moment, nothing could be more perfect. John Watson had never, ever been happier.

"John," Sherlock breathed, nuzzling John's ear.

"Mm, yes 'Lock," John said gruffly, kissing his shoulder.

"I...I think I need a shower."

John chuckled and propped himself up, kissing Sherlock softly on the forehead.

"Probably," he said, smiling. Through all the tenderness of the moment, however, he couldn't help but feel a pang of concern. He stayed there, with his lips pressed to Sherlock's damp forehead, thinking. Sherlock sighed against him, slowly.

"You're sure you're ok then, Sherlock?" John then asked in a serious whisper. "I know this was a little...new..."

Sherlock nodded slowly, his fingers lightly stroking John's skin.

"New, yes," Sherlock said quietly after a beat of silence. "But not...unenjoyable."

John kissed him again through a smile.

"Well I'm here for you. You know that," he said, looking down at him. Sherlock's eyes shown with an intense but muffled glow, like stars behind distressed glass.

"Thank you, John."

"You never have to thank me for that, 'Lock," John replied, kissing him once with tender passion. Sherlock pressed his hand flat against John's back, his other cupping John's face as the kiss deepened. John broke first.

"Think you should probably go get that shower now," he said with a smirk. Sherlock bashfully looked down at himself - _oh, that's quite adorable_ - and nodded curtly, and after a moment, he maneuvered himself off the bed, blushing, and rather hastily made his way into the bathroom, while John lay on the bed, cleaning himself with tissues and pondering the experience with a slightly clearer mind.

_What the hell just happened?_

John lay flat on his back, sighing, breathing deeply, sprawled naked on the bed. The door was open, still, and John entertained the idea of getting up the close it, but fatigue plagued his body for the time being, and so he settled for laying still in the cool room.

It took a moment for the post-coital bleariness to subside before John, rather alarmingly, became fully aware of the situation.

He had had sex with Sherlock Holmes.

Marvelous, passionate, romping sex.

And he didn't regret a single moment of it.

John groaned a bit and ran his hands, which smelled vaguely of Sherlock, down his face. He glanced over at the bathroom door, which was open just a hair. He could hear the shower going, the water spilling over Sherlock's body, no doubt, glistening, flowing, streaming down his -

John sat up. This would not do at all.

He looked around the room, trying to clear his mind.

How in God's name did he let this happen? How on _earth_ did this come about? Why would he lose his better judgement, and _why _could he accept it without feeling even a little perplexed?

But wasn't he perplexed? Or was he just confused? Weren't those the same thing?

_Christ..._

John swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood, stretching a bit before making his way to the door and sliding it closed. He then squatted over his suitcase, wincing at the soreness in his legs, and pulled out a bathrobe and donned it in a flurry of sudden exasperation.

To hell with what might happen. Who cares that he probably just made his flat mate the single most confused man on the planet? Who cares that he was most certainly no longer heterosexual? Who cares that he probably would do it again?

None of those worries that were blooming within him made him regret what he did or what he said to Sherlock. He loved the man, and if that meant that he could make love to him and make him feel ok, then nothing else mattered.

But it did matter. Because Sherlock was struggling, hurt, damaged, lost.

John couldn't help but feel like he might have taken advantage of Sherlock. His mind kept telling him that there was no way in heaven or hell that he'd do something like that, but still, the feeling could not be shaken.

He had known that Sherlock was not in his right mind. He had known that Sherlock was confused, that he was trying to regain control. Yes, John was well aware that the repercussions of what had happened to him would change him, but still he'd done what he did.

How wrong was it? Was it even wrong?

John flopped back onto the messy bed and grumbled, vaguely aware of the fact that the other bed in the room may or may not be used. At all.

So what were they then, if they chose to continue? Would they be boyfriends? Lovers? Partners? Friends with benefits? Where was the line? And had John already crossed it?

Too many questions.

Not enough answers.

John sulked, but with an air of contentedness. He wasn't even sure if that was possible. But, he supposed, anything was possible when you'd just had sex with Sherlock Holmes.

Yes, John sulked.

Sherlock, on the other hand, had never felt more confusedly clear in his life. He stood in the shower, only a little miffed at the fact that his body was so incredibly sore already, and that it was going to take a bit of scrubbing to get traces of John from his mangled pubic hair, but that was all fine. Better than fine.

Sure, he was out of his element. Yes, he was a bit terrified. But by no means, absolutely _no_ means, did he have any regrets.

John loved him. That was it.

John loved him.

Sherlock was loved.

His heart swelled, and he had to bring his wet, soapy hand up to his mouth to stifle a whimper as tears suddenly sprang from deep within him and filled his eyes.

God, he was loved.

It didn't even matter that when John had been kissing him he was afraid to close his eyes for fear of memories. It didn't even matter that when John touched him he felt vague traces of Maxim's fingertips, ever so lightly, only very briefly. It didn't even matter that when John told him he was safe, he had only the slightest doubts. It didn't even matter that when John was finally inside him, he was scared and excited and had so much feeling that he almost wanted it to stop. But it didn't stop. And that was all fine.

No, those things didn't matter.

Sherlock couldn't remember the last time he'd felt fear and ecstasy in the same instant, or if he'd ever felt it at all. He determined that he probably never had.

All technical withstanding considered, Sherlock was completely aware and understood exactly what had happened. He was completely in touch with the fact that this meant that he was probably gay - oh he hated labels - or maybe he was just traumatized. Either way, this was not to say that he completely, _completely_ enjoyed it. With John. He was with John. Was he with John?

He was also aware that "with" implied a lot of things that he didn't quite understand.

One thing he could say with confidence was that he wasn't certain -_ ironic, that_ - if he'd do something like that again in the near future. In the future, probably, but the near future? Probably not, no. It wasn't the...previous horrors that stopped him, it was -

_No, say it. Don't catalog it as unimportant. It's important say it. John said it was important to say it._

It wasn't the rape that stopped him.

No.

Was it?

Maybe it was.

Tears streamed down his face as he contemplated all that had happened, shuddering and sinking to the ground, curling up into a wet, naked ball against the shower tile. He whimpered quietly and hugged himself tight, pressing his forehead to his knees. This was probably a bit not good, crying after sex. But so far he'd done that twice now.

He groaned and closed his eyes, chest heaving.

He was raped.

He was loved.

He was raped.

He was loved.

The two things bounced back and forth in his mind like a vicious game of tennis. He'd never been so affected by anything in his life, and John, God, John was in the middle of it and he wouldn't have it any other way. But did this confuse John just as much as it was confusing him now?

Was he confused, though? He knew what happened, he understood it, and he didn't regret it. He knew he didn't regret it. But the mark, the brand...it smarted still, like a salted wound, and he couldn't quite understand _that_ bit. Would he ever?

He sniffed, wiped his face, swallowed hard. It was mildly frustrating that all this had caused quite a lot of crying on his part.

Standing, he gripped the reigns within his mind and yanked hard, very hard.

You _will_ control yourself.

There _is_ a reason for everything.

There _is_ logic in everything.

You _will_ control this.

His inner voice always had this bad habit of sounding like Mycroft. A voice on the outside startled him.

"Sherlock?"

John.

"You've got a bunch of texts and missed calls from your brother."

Dammit.

"Should I call him back?"

He turned off the water and peaked his head out from behind the curtain. His hair was still wet, and the water that clung to the ends of his curls dripped onto the floor, and he saw a fond smile appear on John's face.

"How many times did he call?" he asked. John looked at the phone in his hands.

"Five times, Sherlock," he said with a twinge of concern. "And he's texted you more than that. Mostly saying to call him. Should we?"

Sherlock knew why his brother would call him. He knew, but he really, really didn't want to hear about it. He swallowed, and John looked at him curiously.

"I'll call him later," Sherlock said, reaching for a towel and wrapping it around his waist before stepping out of the shower. His skin prickled with the coldness of the air. "Why's it so cold in here?" John chuckled - _cute_ - and leaned in the doorway.

"We'd left the balcony door open all that time," he said. Sherlock hadn't noticed that. The most observant man in the world, and he'd glossed right over that. Now that John had said, of course, he remembered, but he -

"I'm starving," John said, breaking Sherlock's stream of thought. Sherlock ruffled his damp locks and glanced in the mirror. Christ, he had three hickeys. He could see John smirk out of the corner of his eye, probably noticing the same thing.

"We can order some food," Sherlock said off-handedly. "Call room service."

"Do you want anything?" John asked, drawing closer.

Sherlock studied his own reflection. Despite his normally fatigue-ridden face, he looked...incredibly refreshed. Perhaps it was the after glow of the sex, which he'd briefly heard about, but even so, he didn't think it'd be this apparent.

"Sherlock?"

John was next to him now. Sherlock looked down at him.

"I'm fine. You can get -"

"No. You eat something. You promised."

John looked sternly at him. Sherlock flushed.

"Right," he said curtly. "Then get whatever you like. I'll share with you."

John reached up then and put his hand on Sherlock's shoulder. _Electric_.

"Look, I was thinking," he started.

"Incredible," Sherlock replied. Immediately he regretted it. _ Why'd you say that, you stupid, stupid clot? Why must you push him away all the time? He'll probably just get upset and -_

John chuckled, and probably saw the flush of relief spread red on Sherlock's face.

"Seriously, though," he said, smiling and rubbing his arm. "I was thinking that maybe...we should slow down a bit. You're obviously confused, even if you don't want to admit it." Sherlock let his gaze fall, then looked up at John, eyes slightly obscured by his damp cruls. John smiled sadly.

"But it's ok, because I am too," he continued. "And in the wake of all that's happened, well, Sherlock, I feel as though I'm being unfair to you. And I'm sorry if you feel taken advantage of. You know I'd never...never want to hurt you." Sherlock opened his mouth to say something, but no words could come to mind, and he fell silent again, looking back down.

"You don't feel that way, do you?" John asked, worried. Sherlock shook his head tersely.

"No, no of course not," he said, still not looking at him. John sighed, relieved but still skeptical. Sherlock cleared his throat.

"But I...well I agree with you. On the confusion, I mean," he said, swallowing. "And the slowing part. Yes. Slow would be good."

Slow would be very good, actually. Give him time to analyze the situation, understand the mechanics, get a grasp on the logic. God, all he needed was to understand it.

John put his hand on his cheek then, and Sherlock looked at him.

_He's tired, obviously because of rigorous physical activity, likely that he hasn't had a good night's sleep in about a fortnight, estimated. Hungry, nervous, creased brow and slightly heightened pulse, visible in throat. Need for affirmation, attention to physical contact increasing, he's stressed but suppressing the feeling, likely because of -_

_Stop it, dammit, stop it._

Sherlock sighed heavily. John cocked his head.

"So...are we gonna be ok?" John asked hesitantly. Sherlock licked his lips and pressed them together. He wanted to feel John again, feel John's body all around him, John's hands grace his body, John's lips and John's kisses flow over his body like healing water. He nearly shuddered when John drew even closer, looking up at him with those beautiful eyes, full of trust, concern, care, love.

It struck him then.

This is what love looked like. John's eyes. John's smile. John's way of quirking his lips in question or tilting his head in curiosity or glancing out of the corner of his eye in fascination. John's look of controlled frustration when Sherlock left things in the fridge, John's "not good" face, John's long yawns in the morning or tired sighs in the evening. John's hands stirring tea, clacking at the keyboard, holding his gun, holding Sherlock's hand...

The little things John did to him, made his heart flutter, pulse quicken, face flush, hands shake...

This is what love looked like, and it made every other thing, every scornful brush of rough calloused fingers or rip of flesh or tear of heart that had been emblazoned onto his flesh, tainted, pressed into his mind like a brand of desolation, it made all those things suddenly dissolve in a rush of fiery passion.

This is what love looked like.

_Beautiful..._

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock had grabbed him and pulled him into a strong, unfaltering embrace before he could even understand what had happened. Sherlock's arms were strung tight around John's frame, and he shuddered with the intensity of his emotions.

"Don't let me go," he found himself whispering into John's ear. "Please, please don't let me go."

John seemed surprised, but he held Sherlock tight, running his hands up and down his back, fingers bristling over each of his vertebrae.

"Are you -"

"I'm ok, John. God I'm ok. I'm so, so very ok."

John chuckled in spite of himself.

"Well...alright then. You sure?"

Sherlock pulled away from him and held John's shoulders squarely in front of him, his eyes piercing and intense and full of realization.

"I've never been more sure of anything in my entire life, John Watson," he said. John looked a bit frightened, honestly, but Sherlock didn't care. He was here, and he understood. Finally, he knew. He had found the solution.

John suddenly cocked his head and laughed. Sherlock arched his eyebrows in question.

"You look like you've just solved a case," he said. "You have that 'I'm-the-best' look on your face."

Sherlock smiled, actually smiled, and he felt laughter erupt within him for the briefest moment before he reclaimed himself again.

"I have," he said. Then he smirked. "And I am."

Yes, Ireland was beautiful. All things considered.

* * *

><p>Things were going terribly, terribly wrong. He knew this, above all things, and he had had an inclining of such long before Maxim had called it quits. The foreboding...the omen...he should have listened to his better judgement. But instead, instead he'd let his cousin walk out on him, guns blazing, fury and fight and the works.<p>

"The plan has gone to _shit_, Edgar!" Maxim had ground out from under his arm. "You're an idiot if you keep fooling yourself into thinking that everything's going to turn out the way you wanted!"

They'd fought each other until they'd both decided that the other was wrong no matter what, and that throwing punches wouldn't change that.

"I'm done with this, Edgar," Maxim growled as he brushed himself off on the ground. "Fucking _done_. You can't see how...how _delusional_ you're being. But you know, it's not my problem. Not anymore."

"It was my understanding that you were completely alright with this," Edgar had said, dabbing at his split lip. "That I'd take the lead and you'd follow."

Maxim scoffed at him and shook his head.

"Take the lead all you want, cousin," he said, gathering his coat from the chair. "But I'll be no part of it. You've gone too far. You've gotten too carried away."

Edgar then suddenly slammed his fists onto the table in front of him and stood.

"And how in the hell was I supposed to know that Sherlock Holmes had those kinds of connections?"

"This was a bad idea to begin with..." Maxim muttered. Edgar was livid.

"Hm?" he asked condescendingly. "Bad idea you say? You! The one who saw his pictures in the paper and had told me, no, encouraged me to provoke him? 'He's a big shot,' you said. 'Should show him his place, get him out of our business.' Do you not recall saying that, Maxim? Or does your mental English-Russian translator suddenly stop working when you say things you suddenly don't mean!"

"Enough of putting this on me, Edgar!" Maxim raged. He spun around, kicked the chair, flipped the table out of the way, and grabbed Edgar by his lapels. He drew his face near Edgar's.

"So help me, Edgar Merchant," he said with quiet fury. "You will pay for this."

They'd simply stared angrily at each other before Maxim let go and said quietly.

"We raped him. God, we raped Sherlock Holmes."

"Yes, Maxim, because that's what we do."

"We got carried away. We should have killed him. "

"Now who's going to far, hm? How would that have made it better?"

"We should have just killed him. Like the rest. Just killed him..."

They exchanged looks. Then Maxim fixed his coat and left.

_Terribly, terribly wrong,_ Edgar finally admitted to himself, now sitting in a chair at the dingy fold-out table that he'd picked up after Maxim left.

His phone buzzed in his pocket, and his stomach clenched.

_Please, don't be him._

"NUMBER WITHHELD"

_Shit._

"Edgar Merchant," he answered, his mouth suddenly feeling rather dry.

"I've just been informed that your lovely cousin has gone to The Ice Man," came the silky, velvet voice on the other end. "Care to explain?"

"It...got out of hand. We -"

"You got carried away. Oh my oh my..."

Edgar sighed heavily.

"I know. It's just that -"

"_No._"

The voice was sharp, edgy, cutting. He winced.

"No," it said, calmer now. "There are no excuses. You said you'd lure him out for me, said you took an interest in him enough to do so. It stopped there. I thought we were perfectly clear on this."

"We -"

"Shut up!"

A shout that was demonically chilling. After a pause, the voice continued, cool and collected.

"I've got every right to vivisect you lot," it said, and Edgar could hear a twinge of delight in the voice. He shuddered. He was a sick man, but not...not insane. No. But this man...

"Unfortunately, that'd take a bit too long. Very busy these days, you know."

A sinister chuckle.

"Lucky for you, you know. If I had the time, I wouldn't mind playing doctor..."

Edgar cleared his throat nervously.

"We...we can still fix it," he said. "We can find -"

A sharp sigh.

"This is the problem with dealing with _ordinary_ people," it said with dramatic frustration. "They're just so _boring_. So stupid. Never listen to daddy."

Edgar stood.

"Now wait just a moment," he said. "You're the one who called on us, mister...whoever you are. You can't just -"

"Oh come off it, Eddie," the voice said. "This isn't fun anymore. Shame, really. Now I've got to come up with a new nickname for him. The things I do for love..."

"Now don't you -!"

"_Ooooh_ well. Ta ta, then, love. See you in hell."

_Click._

"_Fuck!"_ Edgar spat as he threw the phone on the ground. He sat in the chair and breathed heavily through his nose.

He knew from the start that working for this man was a mistake. He knew that. But why..._why_ didn't he listen? He'd gotten carried away, yes. He'd gone off the reals, onto his own plan. How could he have been so stupid to assume that one little touch of improvisation wouldn't throw off the entire scheme?

Their immunity was gone. Their protection, their pay, their _plan_ was gone. And now Edgar Merchant was quite literally live bait for Mycroft Holmes, and anyone else, and even though Merchant himself was a man of few fears and fewer morals, he knew that he was in for it.

After all, if _the_ master criminal himself called Mycroft Holmes "The Ice Man," and had called off his entire operation at the mere mention of his name, it said something of the elder Holmes' character.

Perhaps he was more evil than Merchant. A different kind of evil. The worst kind. The kind that was evil for the sake of good.

Merchant stood, suddenly grabbed everything in sight that was about five feet from him, and shoved it into a duffle bag. Who gave a shit about Feliks and Jakob, anyway? They were distant friends of Maxim's he'd acquired after he'd smuggled himself into Russia, Lord knows why. It wasn't his problem anymore.

_Shit._

How could he have expected Maxim to go all the way up to Mycroft Holmes? And how in the hell did he get there anyway?

_Idiot! He's his fucking brother. Of course he'd know. Shit. Shit shit._

Edgar gave one quick look around his filthy flat before he turned and made a beeline for the door. When he opened it, he flew down the steps and out the door, ignoring everything and anything around him.

_Out out out. Get the fuck out of here._

"Freeze!"

He'd heard it the minute he'd opened the door and stumbled into the back alleyway.

_Shit. Shit!_

"Edgar Merchant," a voice said behind him as he dropped his bag and put his hands up. A man with silver hair and a look of fire and anger and incredible pissed-offed-ness approached him with a gun and handcuffs.

"You're under arrest for multiple charges of murder and sexual assault."

_Shit..._

The man shoved him into the police car and sneered at him through the window.

"May you rot in hell, you son of a bitch."


	11. Chapter 11

NOTE: Sorry again for the wait, everyone. DC and I have been working hard at our new fic together, so other stuff has been a bit delayed. Nonetheless, I bring you chapter 11. Be warned, only a few more chapters left. Also be warned, Sherlock/Lestrade bro-mance in an indecent amount. Because Lestrade deserves more credit. And he's awesome. Yeah.

Also also, I don't particularly find Mystrade very realistic, so I don't tend to write much on it unless there's actual necessity for silliness and extra fluff, but there's interaction between the two in this bit, so think of it how you will.

-NH

* * *

><p><em>Emblazoned<em>

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Gregory Lestrade had never met - or known about - Sherlock's older brother. Well, until recent events, that is.

Mycroft Holmes had contacted him at the office, demanding information like an overprotective and very angry parent. Lestrade didn't even know who he was until he'd argued (and lost horribly) with him for the first thirty seconds of the phone call. After Mycroft had finally revealed himself ("Oh for Christ's sake, I'm his brother, Mycroft Holmes, which is completely irrelevant at the time, _detective inspector"_ - the contempt with which he said Lestrade's title had given it away) Lestrade had been almost brutally questioned about the situation, and had been somewhat thrust into helping Mycroft in the investigation.

Of course, Lestrade didn't mind helping at all. He'd planned on investigating with or without help from the Yard, or anyone, really. And admittedly, he was thankful Mycroft had become involved, since governmental intelligence really helped him further along said investigation.

When he'd received the call from John that night, Lestrade knew something had happened, something very, _very_ bad, and when he'd arrived and had seen Sherlock in that state...well...

Now, Greg Lestrade had never actually _wanted_ to kill anyone. He'd killed people, obviously, it was part of the job. But never had he really, _really_ wanted to kill someone.

He really, _really_ wanted to kill Edgar Merchant.

Sherlock Holmes wasn't always an easy man to deal with, but Lestrade had known him for over five years now, and he knew that Sherlock, at heart, never truly meant any harm. Sherlock was complex, damaged, self-destructive, dangerous, but brilliant and incredible. Absolutely incredible. Lestrade loved the man, by any means. He'd helped him through much much more than a lot of people knew about, and countless times he'd put his job, his family, even his life on the line to be there for Sherlock.

He didn't have to give him cases _("I can't function without stimulation!" "I need a case, Lestrade!" "You have no idea what it's like to be me, to have my mind!" "Why don't you have any cases?" "I need a challenge!")_ he didn't have to come over at 4 in the morning because Sherlock had texted him _("I'm so bored, Lestrade," "I can't sleep, Lestrade," "I need you right now," "Don't be angry," "Please come, Lestrade" "Take them away from me," "Don't be angry, please," "I can't help it,")_, he didn't have to keep Sherlock's secrets _("I'm not sure what to do anymore, Lestrade," "I can't stop using them, you know that," "I just want it to stop sometimes," "No one's ever really liked me," "He confuses me, Lestrade," "I'm afraid, Lestrade,")_, he didn't have to deal with Sherlock's constant rebellion and bickering and difficult nature _("Why is everyone so idiotic all the time?" "It's inexcusable, how you people can't do your job," "What does it matter if I care or not? It's irrelevant!" "I wasn't aware that being honest is being 'brutal,'" "Why does it matter?" "Why is it not good?" "Your first name is Greg?")._

He didn't have to do any of that.

But he did it anyway, because Greg Lestrade was Sherlock's friend. God help him.

Sitting in his office, waiting on a phone call from Mycroft, Lestrade was both silently fuming and outwardly exuberant.

He had found Edgar Merchant, and they'd retained him for questioning, which indeed made him smile. On the other hand, though, he wanted to gauge the man's eyes out with a spoon, which he obviously couldn't do.

A knock roused him from his inner conflict.

"What?" he said irritatingly. Donovan emerged from behind the door.

"Everything alright?" she asked, looking at him cautiously. He sighed heavily and ran his hands over his face.

"We got him," he said. He chuckled scornfully. "Record timing to. Something about the Holmes family and solving crimes. Must be in the water."

Donovan smirked and sat down. Lestrade looked at her.

"This will be good," he said, nodding more to himself than to her. "Sherlock will be glad to hear it." Donovan sighed.

"Lestrade..." she started. "I can't help feeling like...well I mean you didn't put this much effort into finding Merchant before this, and it just feels...well...I mean, all victims should be -"

"Sally," Lestrade said, leaning forward. "I know you don't like him, but please try to understand. I needed to help him, somehow. This is the only way I can."

"But you solved this case faster than you would have ever solved it if Sherlock Holmes hadn't been a victim!" Sally suddenly said, standing. She placed her hands flat on the desk and stared down at Lestrade.

"What happened to him was awful, yeah," she said. "But we can't drop everything for him. What about the rest of them? What about the three other victims that were killed? Did you even make any further investigation on their part? Hm?"

Lestrade swallowed and looked down. It was true, to some degree, that he had put this case on his highest priority level, simply because of what happened to Sherlock, but why not? Sherlock Holmes, despite what the others thought, was one of their own, and he would have done it for anyone else on the team.

"Is this because it's Sherlock?" he asked, narrowing his eyes at her. Sally stood back.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, are you telling me this, getting yourself worked up over this because it's Sherlock, and you think he's got some kind of collar on me?"

Sally shook her head incredulously, mouth agape.

"He does, Lestrade!" she said. "How can you not see that? He's got you wrapped around his bloody finger!"

Lestrade stood and slammed his hands on the desk, causing Sally to jump.

"You listen to me," he said, low and deep and full of controlled fury. "Sherlock Holmes, whatever he is or whatever you think he is, Sherlock Holmes is a brilliant, brilliant man. He's my colleague, he's my friend, and you have absolutely _no_ right to barge in here, all brassed off like you think you know him or how to deal with him or how to do my damn _job_."

Sally swallowed, sheepishly lettering her gaze fall.

"Now get the _hell_ out of my office," Lestrade said as the phone rang. Sally turned on heel and hurried out of the office as he plucked the phone off the receiver and said gruffly.

"DI Lestrade, what do you want."

"I'll assume you didn't know you were talking to me," came Mycroft's silky voice from the other line. Lestrade cleared his throat.

"Sorry, just...yeah. What'd you need?" he asked, sitting back down. He heard Mycroft sigh.

"As ever, my brother is ignoring my calls because he's insufferable that way, but whenever I get a hold of him I'll be informing him of our progress. I'll assume that he'll probably want to return from his holiday early, then. Will you be able to have that taken care of or should I send an aircraft? It can be arranged within a few minutes. I just wanted to confirm."

Lestrade felt that he was constantly being reminded of just how powerful Mycroft was each time he spoke with him.

"Well to be honest you'll probably be able to have it taken care of fast than I can coordinate it," he replied. "So I guess just let me know whenever he's headed back and I'll get things sorted out."

"Very good then," Mycroft said. Lestrade waited for further instruction, but when all he got was silence, he said tentatively.

"Is there...anything else, Mr. Holmes?"

This seemed to rouse Mycroft, for his reply was a bit distracted.

"No no, that will be all. Thank you, detective inspector," he said, and with that, he ended the call.

Lestrade sat down in his desk chair and sighed. He didn't know what the relationship between Mycroft and Sherlock was, and it wasn't really his business to begin with, but he wondered why Sherlock wouldn't answer his brother's calls. He shrugged and picked up his mobile, beginning to dial Sherlock's number, but decided it'd be best to text. He did prefer to text, after all.

_SMS: Your brother wants to know if you've received his calls. We've got good news._

It took only a few minutes for Sherlock to reply.

_SMS: Tell my brother he's insufferable. -SH_

Lestrade sighed heavily through a smile. It seemed that Sherlock was returning to his normal self faster than he'd anticipated.

_SMS: Think you might want to know about this though_

_SMS: I'm aware of what you've got to tell me. -SH_

_SMS: So? Are you coming back?_

_SMS: Next week. -SH _

Lestrade sighed. He was about to pass into No Man's Land.

_SMS: Are you avoiding this, Sherlock?_

He pressed "SEND" with reluctance, and waited. The reply took a bit longer this time, and Lestrade nearly thought that the planets had aligned when his eyes beheld the tiny black letters on the screen.

_SMS: Yes, I am. Very much so. And I've every right to. -SH_

No snide remark, no sarcastic comment, nothing of the sort. An honest, exposed, vulnerable answer from Sherlock Holmes. Lestrade was practically floored. He wasn't exactly sure how to respond.

_SMS: You're right, you do. But even so, think you should call your brother anyway._

_SMS: I'm sorry you feel that way. See you next week. -SH_

Lestrade sighed again, and placed his mobile on the desk. He leaned back and looked up. Without Sherlock, work was admittedly dull. Cases came and went, nothing was exciting, nothing was tangibly interesting. Nothing was new. Sherlock might always complain about the lackluster of life and the scarcity of stimuli, but it wasn't to say that Lestrade didn't understand what he meant.

Lestrade felt a tug in his heart. He considered Sherlock the closest thing to a brother he'd ever had, and he couldn't help but feel slightly jealous of John Watson at times.

John and Sherlock had become a hybrid of sorts. Sherlock-and-John, John-and-Sherlock, Holmes-and-Watson, Doctor-and-Detective. The two were attached at the hip. Lestrade was a bit surprised when Sherlock hadn't run John out of the flat after a week, and he was even more surprised when he found that John was content in staying.

The jealousy spawned only from the fact that, to be frank, Sherlock owed Lestrade a lot, and John was able to move into Sherlock's life with such ease, such acceptance, while Lestrade still felt as though he were on the fringes. Of course, he knew Sherlock cared about him. He knew that Sherlock considered him one of his only friends. But John was more. John was Sherlock's other half. John was everything Sherlock was missing. Without John, Sherlock was not complete.

The first time Sherlock had let on to Lestrade that he harboured feelings for the doctor, Lestrade didn't think much of it. It was late at night, and they were at Bart's morgue. Sherlock was pouring over paperwork sprawled on a table that was not three feet from a corpse sprawled on a slab, while Lestrade was trying very hard not to fall asleep. John was apparently visiting a friend in Picadilly, and Sherlock was being particularly irritable.

After the usual array of unnecessary insults and apparently "obvious" deductions, Lestrade was nodding off when he heard Sherlock say in a rather low voice.

"I miss him."

Lestrade roused himself and looked at Sherlock.

"Sorry?"

"I said I miss him, Lestrade. Do keep up."

Lestrade frowned and narrowed his eyes.

"Sorry, bit knackered. Miss who? John?" he asked innocently. Sherlock responded with an irritated huff.

"Who _else_ would it be, honestly?" he said with an air of frustration. He looked up from the papers and chewed his bottom lip, glaring daggers at Lestrade. Lestrade chuckled and leaned on the table.

"Lonely at the flat?" he asked, smirking. Sherlock sighed.

"If you're going to mock me then we'll forget the whole discussion," he said, and Lestrade then realized that Sherlock wasn't being touchy, he was actually trying to convey...feelings. Immediately, he felt guilty. He raised his brow and shook his head.

"No no, sorry. Just...it's just that you -"

"I am entirely capable of human emotion, thank you, Lestrade," Sherlock said, looking back down at the work. Things went silent again.

The second time was a bit more obvious. The two were walking back from the lounge at the Yard, Lestrade barely living on coffee and adrenaline. Sherlock, of course, didn't make any for himself, but he did take the time to prepare a cup for John, who was waiting for them upstairs in Lestrade's office.

"Thought you took sugar in your coffee," Lestrade commented when they were about to leave. Sherlock looked at him and scoffed.

"You know I don't eat or drink on a case," he said incredulously. "Slows me -"

"I know, but you just got some coffee," Lestrade said. He was too tired to hear Sherlock go on and on tonight. Sherlock made a face.

"It's not for me," he said, as if Lestrade should have known. He probably should have.

"Oh, for John then," he said as they made their way up the stairs.

"Obviously," Sherlock replied, looking down at the cup almost fondly.

"You two getting along then?" Lestrade asked, sipping the coffee and deciding it was still too hot.

"Yes," Sherlock said. "Just fine."

"Really? This is a record for you, you know. I'm impressed."

There was a silence, and Lestrade thought for a minute that he might have hurt the detective's feelings, but after a beat, Sherlock replied simply.

"John is an extraordinary man, and I am very lucky to have him in my life."

Lestrade had stopped walking then, mouth agape, and regarded the back of the lanky detective with a look of incredulousness. Sherlock didn't stop.

"Come along, Lestrade. Murders to be solved and all that."

The third time Lestrade had the same inclining, it was all too justified. Sherlock had texted him at around one in the morning - something that Lestrade was a bit too used to for his liking - asking him to come to the flat as soon as possible. Lestrade had learned not to ask why, because to be honest, he'd rather not know the reasons.

And so, he'd made himself crawl out of bed, throw on a t-shirt and some sweat pants, pull on his trainers over bare feet, and head out to greet his friend in the hopes of not finding him high as a kite or drunk as a sailor.

Neither was the case when he'd arrived and Sherlock was sitting on the stoop outside the flat, head hung low. Lestrade approached with caution.

"Everything alright?" he asked a bit groggily. When Sherlock lifted his head, Lestrade was taken aback, and he stood, frozen, staring at Sherlock's face with a look of perpetual confusion.

Sherlock was on the verge of crying.

"He's going to leave me," Sherlock said, amazingly still maintaing the same even tone he spoke with normally, despite the fact that there were tears filling his eyes and his lips quivered slightly.

"What?" was all Lestrade could manage. Sherlock swallowed hard and cleared his throat, blinking rapidly and looking away.

"John. He's going to leave me. I know he will," he said quietly, his voice just beginning to shake. Lestrade sat down on the stoop next to Sherlock and looked at him curiously.

"Why do you say that?" he asked gently, putting a tentative hand on his shoulder. Sherlock sniffed, still not meeting the detective inspector's eyes.

"I'm too much for him," he said quietly. "He'll leave me. He'll leave me alone again."

Lestrade shook his head.

"I don't think John will leave you," he said. "He's a good man. He cares about you."

Sherlock stiffened as Lestrade lightly stroked his shoulder. After a long silence, Sherlock looked up at Lestrade, the tears threatening to break through.

"I don't want him to leave me," he said in a trembling whisper. "I need him. I need him so badly."

Lestrade, despite his best efforts, couldn't help but arch his eyebrows in surprise. He'd only ever seen Sherlock like this while going through withdrawal, or sometimes when he was drunk, but never fully aware. Lestrade nodded slowly.

"It's ok, Sherlock," he said. "He knows you need him. I'm sure he does."

Sherlock sniffed and looked away again, closing his eyes and gripping his knees. Lestrade allowed him to calm himself, still a bit thrown for a loop. When Sherlock brought his eyes up to meet his again, though, Lestrade smiled as best he could. Sherlock narrowed his eyes in thought, not contempt, slits of moist silver regarding Lestrade in the dim streetlights.

"He confuses me, Lestrade," he said cautiously, as if the words sounded odd on his lips. He blinked, regaining some of his normal composure. "He confuses me and, oddly enough, I'm...I'm alright with it."

Lestrade shrugged and said, perhaps a bit abruptly and without much thought.

"That's what love does, you know."

Sherlock had scoffed, perhaps suppressing a chuckle, and the two then decided to share a cigarette and sit in the cool silence of the night, each drag a relief to both men, each line of smoke snaking from between their lips an unspoken, mutual promise of secrecy in brotherhood, sanctity among men.

Lestrade wondered how John was dealing with this situation. He couldn't imagine the severity of his feelings, having seen his best friend -

His phone rang again, and Lestrade very nearly leapt from his chair.

"Lestrade," he said, answering haphazardly.

"They want you to come in and watch the interrogation," said Donovan. "Ready when you are."

"Thanks," he said. He hung up the receiver. He glanced at his mobile. John had texted him.

_SMS: Thanks for working so hard, Greg. I really appreciate it. And even if Sherlock doesn't seem to, you know he does. He's too proud to admit it though :-P -J_

Lestrade smiled.

_SMS: Just keep him safe, John._

His fingertip hovered over the "SEND" button for a moment, but he thought a bit, then smirked and added.

_He needs you._

* * *

><p><em>SMS: Just keep him safe, John. He needs you.<em>

John smiled and tucked his phone into his pocket. Sherlock strode along side of him, his coat billowing behind him in the wind and snow, his collar turned up. They were headed to dinner, upon John's request.

"After dinner, I would like you to call your brother," he said, looking up at Sherlock. Sherlock scowled.

"He's become quite popular after all this," he said indignantly. John sighed in frustration, and Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Fine," he said. "But we're not coming home early."

"Sounds like a plan."

John then hooked his arm in Sherlock's, and laced his fingers between the detective's. Sherlock cocked a brow, but said nothing, accepting the gesture with a warm flare in his chest and a small smile.

And John really didn't care if people would talk. Because people did little else, anyway.


End file.
